The Bloods of Bolton
by A. M. Brossart
Summary: A three-part fic focusing on the infamous House Bolton: Set before the start of the series, this story follows Domeric, Drucilla, and the bastard Ramsay Snow as they struggle to survive, seek revenge, and unlock the terrifying secrets of their ancient house. Unbeknownst to them all, each of them is playing their role in their father's game of conquest.
1. CHAPTER 1

PART I: THE BASTARD OF THE DREADFORT 

**Chapter 1: A Flayed Man Holds No Secrets**

_Our blades are sharp._

Those are the official words of House Bolton, tried and true. During the ancient days, the Boltons were one of the most powerful houses of the North. Their lands stretched from the Last River and the White Knife all the way to the Sheepshead Hills. The Red Kings of the Dreadfort, they were called, and they would flay their enemies alive and hang their skins in the Dreadfort, a custom which earned them a most gruesome reputation.

A thousand years ago, however, that all changed when the Boltons bent the knee to the Starks, their most bitter rivals, and agreed to abandon the unfavorable practice. Since then, the old ways have passed into myth, reduced to frightening tales that nursemaids tell young children in their beds. Drucilla Bolton, the eight-year-old daughter of Lord Roose Bolton, had heard the stories many times as a child. Too many times.

"Hilda says the practice isn't dead, you know," she told her cousins Tansy and Tally Ryswell, the fair-haired kin of Lady Bethany Bolton and wards of the Dreadfort.

At her behest, the girls had abandoned their embroidery lesson and followed her into the great hall, a dark and terrifying place even for grown men. Burning torches grasped by skeletal human hands jutted out from the walls, as if waiting to snatch unsuspecting children and steal them away. Thick grey smoke lingered in the cold, damp air like an ominous fog. It clung to the fabric of their dresses and burned their throats. Young Tansy started coughing as soon as she walked inside, but Drucilla pressed on despite her.

The child's long black coat dragged along the stone floor as she approached the dais. There, at the very top, stood the high table where her father's chair sat: a great seat carved from a mighty oak tree, now turned black from all the smoke, simple and unadorned, but it needed no embellishments. When Lord Bolton sat there and spoke in his spider soft voice, that chair became more intimidating than the Iron Throne itself.

Out of respect, she dared not touch it.

She whipped around to face her cowering cousins. "Hilda says the Boltons still flay their enemies in secret, in the darkest depths of the dungeons, far away from the Stark's watchful eyes. And there's a hidden chamber in the Dreadfort which houses all their skins, like a great trophy room. She says this whole fortress is haunted by the spirits of the tortured, and in the dead of night, you can still hear their moans and screams of agony."

Either from the smoke or the shock, Tansy Ryswell's brown eyes rolled back, and she collapsed to the floor with a dull thud.

"Oh, now you've done it," said Tally before she knelt down to shake her sister awake. With a few taps and slaps to her cheek, the girl stirred and slowly staggered back to her feet. "Why do you have to tell her stories like that?" Tally asked. "You know she's easily frightened."

"They're not stories," Drucilla said. "They're the truth."

"I don't believe you. I don't believe the Boltons ever flayed their enemies."

"Yes, they did." Drucilla's pale pink lips curled into a smirk as she crept toward her cousins. "The Starks have their swords, but we have our knives, sharp and thin enough to fit between the layers of skin … and _peel_ to expose the nerves and tissue below." She reached into her open coat and pulled out a knife, small but sharp, stolen from the smithy in the yard.

Tally's eyes widened. "What are you doing with that?"

"Us Boltons say a naked man has few secrets." Drucilla pointed the tip of the blade against Tansy's rosy cheek while her older sister watched in horror. "But a flayed man, none. What secrets do you have hidden beneath your skin, cousin?"

Something happened then. Drucilla pushed too hard — or maybe Tansy suddenly flinched — and the knife nicked her paper-thin skin. Warm blood dripped a red line down her cheek. The blade, wet with her blood, slipped out of Drucilla's hand and clattered to the floor.

Tally gasped. "_What is wrong with you?_"

"I - I didn't mean to … It was an accident! I was just trying to scare her."

"Well, you got what you wanted then," Tally curtly replied, and then she took her sobbing sister by the shoulders and led her out of the great hall.

Drucilla glared at their backs. "It's just a scratch!" she shouted. "It won't even leave a scar!"

Once they were gone, Drucilla picked up the bloody knife and examined it from point to hilt. She'd never cut anyone before, only dreamt about it, and it was much different in real life. Easier, like cutting her meat at supper.

She touched the point with the tip of her index finger. _Our blades are sharp.  
_

"Oh, there you are, child," called Hilda from the hall's entrance. "I've been looking everywhere for you." The plump old woman waddled over and seized the girl's arm with a firm grip. "What's that you've got there?" She saw the knife clutched in the child's hand. No doubt she saw the blood too. "Drucilla, what have I told you about playing with knives? You could hurt someone. Now, give it here before you cut yourself again."

"But I didn't cut myself," Drucilla muttered as her governess took the knife from her.

"Come," said the old woman, "let's return to your embroidery lesson."

"I don't want to. I don't need to practice. My stitches are perfect. They're always perfect. Better than yours."

"Drucilla, you're being quite rude."

"And you're wasting my time, Hilda," she replied, and then she turned and walked out of the great hall with her governess close on her heels.

"Young lady, if your father heard you talking like that, he would—"

The old woman fell silent upon exiting the hall. Immediately, she stopped and stood as still as a statue, her head bowed and eyes fixed to the ground in anticipation of her approaching lord. Drucilla looked around the middle bailey and saw the other servants doing the same. Roose Bolton, garbed in his hunting attire, was heading toward the stables. He was an ordinary-looking man: neither tall nor short, neither strong nor weak, and his face was plain and beardless. Physically, there was nothing intimidating about him, and yet nobody had the courage to look at him.

It was because of his eyes. Those striking pale grey eyes, eerie as the full moon on a cold, misty night. They frightened everyone, everyone except Drucilla. And why should she be afraid? Her father was Lord of the Dreadfort. His blood was her blood. His eyes were her eyes. While everyone quaked and quivered in his presence, Drucilla looked on with great pride; and when his grey eyes met hers, she smiled.

Once he was out of sight, Hilda raised her head and said to the child, "Your lesson, my lady."

"Can wait. I'm going to find my mother."

Actually, there was no finding necessary. Drucilla already knew where her mother was: in her chambers, probably sitting by the window and gazing down at the godswood with a deep, melancholy expression as she waited for the sun to set. She spent most days in her chambers. She ate and slept in there, leaving only when her lord husband called upon her for her wifely duties.

But when Drucilla entered her mother's chambers, she didn't find her sitting in her usual spot by the window. In fact, she didn't find her at all. Instead, she found Reek, the servant who bathed three times a day and still smelled as rotten as a week-old corpse. Hilda said he was born that way, cursed by the old gods. Even his blood was foul. He wasn't supposed to be in the keep. He was supposed to be outside. But there he was, inside Lady Bolton's private chambers, and he was dousing himself with her most expensive perfume.

"What are you doing?" Drucilla said, and the smelly creature just stared at her with his droopy, runny eyes. "You're not supposed to be here. Get out before I tell my father. He'll have you flogged for this."

Like the clumsy fool he was, Reek bobbled the bottle out of his hands, and it smashed to pieces on the floor. He yelped and shielded his ears when he heard the sound. "A thousand p-pardons, m'lady," he said, ducking his head as if to avoid a punishing blow.

"Go back to the pig pens where you belong, Reek," Drucilla ordered, and Reek did as his lady bid, leaving behind a thick cloud of his stench that made her stomach churn.

She hurried to the window and ripped open the wooden shutters, taking in the scent of last night's heavy rain mixed with the smoke from the blacksmith's forge. Drucilla loved the sounds and smells of the Dreadfort. Her mother and cousins always complained about the smell. And the cold, they hated that the most. Despite being Northerners, they shivered even when covered with the thickest furs. They said the Dreadfort was a different kind of cold. And maybe it was, but they were Ryswells, not Boltons. What did they know about it?

From the window, Drucilla spotted her mother walking through the godswood with the wind in her brown hair. She had been visiting the crypts, no doubt, where all of her lost children slept, Deanna the newest among them. Most had died in the womb or in the cradle, as most children did, but Deanna's death was the hardest to swallow. It was a tragic accident that haunted Lady Bolton's thoughts and dreams.

Drucilla ran out to meet her. Along the way, as she was passing through the upper bailey, she saw Reek being flogged by Damon Dance-for-Me, one of her father's men-at-arms. Tansy and Tally considered him handsome, with his fair hair and boyish looks, but he became a monster when he had that whip in his hand. If Tansy and Tally ever saw him like that, they would stop their giggling and gawking whenever he passed by. They would fear him like everyone else.

Drucilla knew better than to watch, but she could hear the loud crack when Damon's whip bit Reek's back. The sound followed her all the way into the silent godswood, where her mother, dressed in the color of mourning, was kneeling in front of the heart tree.

Lady Bolton spoke with her eyes still closed. "Tally told me you cut Tansy's face with a knife. Is that true?"

"No …" Drucilla had started to say, but in the presence of the gods, it was hard to lie. They were watching her, those carved eyes, and judging her. "It was an accident," she finally admitted. "I didn't mean to cut her."

"I'm sure you didn't, but you did frighten your cousin, and so you must apologize."

Drucilla looked down at her feet. "I know."

Slowly, Lady Bolton arose from the ground and smiled at her daughter. "Would you like to go for a ride with me? It has been a long time since you've been on a horse. We can ride along the riverbank and watch the sun set, if you'd like. I haven't been to the river since—" Lady Bolton's green eyes misted over as the memory of that dreadful day came back to her. "It'll be nice to get out for a while," she uttered. "These grey walls, they can be so suffocating. Come, Drucilla, let's go before your father returns."

Without an answer from her daughter, Lady Bolton wandered toward the stables alone, still murmuring either to herself or to the little girl who was supposed to be following her.


	2. CHAPTER 2

**Chapter 2: The Weeping Water**

Hand in hand, Lady Bolton and her daughter walked down the riverbank while their horses stayed behind and grazed on the tall green grasses. The sky was cloudy and grey. The cold winds were blowing, but the furs kept Drucilla warm. Her mother was right; it felt nice to get out of the castle, even for a little while.

When they had gone to fetch the horses, the stablemaster urged them to take a few guards with them. "It's not safe for two women to go out there alone," he said. "You never know what kind of folk you might run into." But Lady Bolton refused him. She knew she would never be able to relax if she was being followed by her lord husband's men. They watched her enough already.

While Drucilla skipped rocks across the rippling water, her mother kept a close eye on her. "Don't get too close to the water," she warned. "The current is stronger than you think. It'll suck you right in."

But rarely do children ever listen to their mothers. Deanna was no exception.

She'd always loved the water, thought she might've been a fish in another life. Every day she asked if she could go play in the river. "I'll stay in the shallow end," she promised, and when she looked up at her mother with those big green eyes, it was impossible to refuse her.

One time, however, Lady Bolton did refuse her. "The current is too strong," she said, "and the waters are too cold."

But Deanna went to the river anyway, that stubborn child.

Only the gods knew how she'd managed to pass through the gates unseen, and they didn't protect her. A fisherman pulled her out of the water hours later. By then, her body was as cold and stiff as a block of ice.

_Another soul for the Weeping Water_, thought Lady Bolton as she gazed into the murky river. _Lady Marilynn must have been lonely._

Marilynn Umber was the first wife of Lord Roose Bolton and sister of the Greatjon. She was a fair and soft-spoken maiden, barely sixteen on the day of her wedding, with a small and delicate frame. Most considered her an anomaly of an Umber, as most of her relatives were rather large and boisterous people. Giants among men, some said, and easily angered. Perhaps that was why Lord Bolton told the Greatjon that his dear sister had succumbed to a fever. It sounded much gentler than the truth, after all, and suicide was never welcome news.

Nobody knew why she'd done it, but everyone had their suspicions: farmers, fishermen, farriers, even stableboys. She'd never been very happy at the Dreadfort, Lady Marilynn. Small wonder why. No foreigner ever felt at home in the Dreadfort. But she seemed especially miserable, refusing to eat or drink, refusing to sleep. Some claimed she couldn't sleep, that the voices of the dead were keeping her awake at night, and they convinced Lady Marilynn to walk into the Weeping Water on that cold winter night.

And maybe they did. Most, however, believed it was the pressure to produce an heir that eventually drove Lady Marilynn to suicide, but they knew better than to speak about it in Lord Bolton's presence.

"Drucilla," Lady Bolton said to her daughter, "how would you like to go on a trip?"

Drucilla chucked her last rock into the water. "A trip? Where are we going? Is Father coming too?"

"No, your father has to stay here. But we can go to Barrowton, just the two of us, and live with Aunt Barbrey for a while. She hasn't seen you since you were a baby, you know, and I'm sure she'd love to spend time with you. Won't that be fun?"

"No," Drucilla answered. "I don't want to go to Barrowton. I want to stay here with Father."

"The Dreadfort is no place for a child."

"But it is the place for a Bolton, and I am a Bolton."

Her face may have favored her Ryswell side. She had her mother's brown hair, narrow jaw, and small, upturned nose. But she had her father's eyes. In her heart, Drucilla was a Bolton, and the Dreadfort was her home.

"Drucilla, this isn't up for discussion. I've already written to your aunt. We'll be leaving next month."

The child's grey eyes narrowed and hardened into ice. "No," she said. "You can't make me go. You can't make me do anything!" And then she turned and ran off into the surrounding forest.

"Drucilla!" Lady Bolton shouted from the riverbank. "Drucilla, come back!"

But the child refused to stop. On and on she ran, pushing past the mighty oaks and the lonely evergreens, past the sleeping sentinels and the soldier pines with their prickly green needles that stuck to her like quills on a porcupine and made her skin itch and burn. By the time she finally stopped, the Dreadfort was nothing more than a black speck above the treetops. The Torturer's Tower pierced the sky like a sharp obsidian dagger and painted the horizon with blood.

Night was fast approaching.

Shivering, Drucilla pulled the furs close to her neck and began the long journey back to the Dreadfort. The forest was quiet apart from the occasional "Hoot, hoot" from an unseen owl. She later found the fat grey owl nestled within the hollow of a tree. "Hoot, hoot," it said again, staring at her with its bright yellow eyes.

"Hoot, hoot," Drucilla replied with a friendly smile, and then she continued on her way.

By nightfall, the child stumbled upon the miller's cottage. The windows were all aglow and smoke was wafting up from the chimney. Drucilla felt warmer already. The miller's wife was a kind woman who'd baked tasty sweet breads for Drucilla's last name day, so she knew she could count on the woman's hospitality now.

She approached the cottage and knocked on the door three times. "Hello?" she called. "Is anybody home?"

No answer.

She knocked again, harder this time. "Hello?"

With a quiet creak, the wooden door opened just enough to allow a pair of grey eyes to peek through the crack. They glared at her, those ghostly grey eyes, and for a moment Drucilla thought she was staring at her lord father.

"What do you want?" asked the person on the other side, a young boy by the sound of him.

"I was trying to get home," Drucilla answered, "but it's getting too dark to find my way. Can I please come inside? It's cold out here."

"My mother said I'm not supposed to open the door for strangers. It's dangerous."

"Dangerous? But I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just a girl."

"I never said _you_ were going to hurt me."

Drucilla's brow furrowed with confusion. "Look, boy, my father is Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. If he finds out you turned away his only daughter, you're going to be sorry."

"Bolton, eh?" He grinned. "You think he'll flay me alive?"

"It's possible." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you want to wait and find out?"

The boy chuckled. "Okay, m'lady, I'll let you in."

As promised, he opened the door and gave a deep, dramatic bow just as Drucilla entered the house. When he straightened himself again, the eleven-year-old stood several inches taller than his eight-year-old guest, but Drucilla certainly wasn't intimidated. The boy was too scrawny to be a threat, and she was a Bolton.

"Where are your parents?" Drucilla asked as she stared around the house. It was a spacious cottage with stone floors and vaulted ceilings. A warm hearth kept the house toasty warm and filled the air with the mouthwatering aroma of freshly-cooked stew. For furniture, there were tables, chairs, and benches, all made of wood. Upstairs were other rooms, including the bedrooms where the family slept in soft feather beds. The boy was lucky to be living in such a place.

"My mother isn't here," the boy answered as he sat down at the table.

"And your father?"

He shrugged. "Never knew my father. He could be anywhere, I suppose."

"Oh. Sorry."

"But your father," he went on with a toothy smile, "he's Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, or the Leech Lord, as some call him."

Drucilla scowled. "Those people don't live very long."

He laughed. "Did I offend you?" he asked, his grey eyes shimmering with amusement. "I shouldn't make jokes, should I? You could have me locked away in a dungeon somewhere. Or worse, flayed alive and hung on a wall."

"I feel like you're mocking me. I don't like it."

"Sorry." He threw up his hands as a gesture of surrender. "Meant no offense, m'lady. What are you doing so far away from home, anyway? Decide to run away?"

"No. I was just playing …"

"Playing?" His eyes lit up and he leaned forward in his chair. "Do you like games? I know! Let's play one now."

Drucilla shifted uncomfortably in her stance. "… What kind of game is it?"

"You'll like it. It's called catch-and-kill."

"Never heard of it."

"It's very easy. See, I'll be the hunter and you'll be the prey. The prey has 'til the count of ten to get as far away as they can. And they'd better run fast because when their time's up, the hunter gets to hunt them."

"So it's like hide-and-seek."

"Yes, just like hide-and-seek. You win if you make it home alive. But if I catch you, … the game is over, and I get to kill you. Catch-and-kill. Easy, right?"

As his words sunk in, a lump formed in Drucilla's throat, and it grew larger and larger with each gulp until it strangled her. He was watching her from the chair, his hand inches away from the kitchen knife that lay beside his half-eaten supper. When Drucilla's panicked eyes darted over to it, he snatched it off the table and pointed the blade at her.

"Let's start, hmm?" he said with an excited grin.

Drucilla shook her head. "I - I changed my mind. I don't want to play this game."

"You don't. But I do. This is my favorite game, you see, and I never lose." He stood up and took a single step toward her. "You'd better start running. I tend to count fast … sometimes, I even skip numbers. But since you're a lady, I'll try to play fair."

He took another step forward, forcing Drucilla's tentative retreat.

"One …"

Drucilla's back slammed against the door.

"_Two …_"

She gripped the iron door handle with a trembling hand.

"Three!"


	3. CHAPTER 3

**Chapter 3: Playing in the Dark**

"Where are you, little lady?" taunted the boy as he followed the girl's boot tracks through the forest. In one hand, he carried a torch to light his way; in the other, a knife with which to gut his prey. "Where are you?"

The wind whispered its secrets to the trees' rustling leaves, but it would not tell the boy where his prey was hiding. Was she squatting beneath the soldier pines or hiding behind the hawthorns? Had she climbed a giant beech tree or scaled a towering oak? Was she that smart? Or had she doubled back to the riverbank in hopes of finding a friendly fisherman or, at the very least, a boat in which to float away?

A sudden crunch beneath his leather boot put an end to his questions. Upon lifting his foot, he noticed a small wooden toggle button, now splintered to pieces and squished into the dirt.

He smirked. "Did you lose a button, m'lady?" he asked, his grey eyes focused on the old oak tree that stood before him. Its trunk was wide, wide enough to hide a little lady. When the wind stopped, he could hear movement behind the tree: the soft crunch of dead leaves, the snap of a small twig, and the quiet whimpers of a frightened child.

"Are you scared, m'lady?" asked the boy as he slowly approached the tree. The fingers on his knife hand started to itch and ache with anticipation. Too long had it been since he'd had a decent hunt. Too long had his skills gone untested, his knife unsoiled.

"Don't be scared," he said, preparing his weapon. "It's just a game."

With his blade high and ready to strike, the boy slowly peeked around the trunk and flashed a victorious smile, but that smile faded once he realized he'd been tricked. Sitting at the foot of the tree was not a girl but a raccoon, its paws fumbling around with a fallen acorn. When it sensed the boy's presence, the animal snarled and growled and then sped off with its prize.

The boy lowered his knife. "Well done, m'lady." He stepped back and scanned the nearby trees, searching for any clues to his playmate's location. "You're good at this game!"

Finding nothing, he eventually gave up and moved on to the next section of the forest. Unbeknownst to him, his young playmate was watching him from the sturdy branch of the oak tree he'd just abandoned. She'd climbed up there as soon as she spotted the light from his torch, and she found shelter beneath the tree's thick shroud of leaves. For a long while she sat there, clinging to the trunk like it was her mother. She would have stayed up there all night, but she knew she had to get to safety. By now, her lord father had undoubtedly sent his men to find her. She just had to hold out a little longer.

Slowly, Drucilla climbed down and continued through the wood. From tree to tree, from bush to bush, she scurried along the forest floor: always on the run, always alert, always fearing what lurked in the darkness. He was out there somewhere, that boy with eyes like hers. She could hear him calling out to her. His voice sailed through the wind and sent chills down her spine.

"Come out, little lady," he kept saying in a pleasant, playful tone. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

When she saw the approaching torchlight, Drucilla rushed over to the nearest tree and reached for a low-hanging branch. But then she saw another torch further away, then a third and later a fourth, and she heard the voices of her father's men and the sighs and snorts of their horses.

Without a second thought, Drucilla took off running toward them. "I'm here!" she cried in between pants. "I'm here! I'm here!"

The dim torchlights burned brighter and the men's voices grew louder. Faster she ran. Faster and faster, as fast as her little legs would let her. She could almost see them now and make out the color of their horses: one black and two brown. A little further. Just a little further and she could go home.

But then, just when safety was within her grasp, a shadow flew out of the darkness and tackled her to the ground. Suddenly, the boy was on top of her, pinning her down with his weight. "I win!" he proudly declared, and Drucilla saw the moonlight shining in his blade.

It struck like a bolt of lightning, slicing through the skin on her forearm when she tried to block it. Drucilla screamed and she thrashed around with all her might, but she couldn't free herself or knock away the blade. Again and again, the knife came down, and each time it got a little closer to her chest. By then, her arms and hands were covered with cuts and dripping with blood. It splattered and smeared over them both during the violent struggle.

"Over there!" one of the guards shouted. "I hear something over there!"

The boy stopped then and craned his head toward the sound of the approaching guards. They were coming, he knew, with armor and swords and skills he didn't possess. He didn't stand a chance, so he left her on the ground, bleeding and broken but still breathing, and fled into the woods.

* * *

Back in the Dreadfort, Lady Bethany was glaring through the iron portcullis and anxiously awaiting her daughter's return. Hours ago, her lord husband had sent his men to find her. The guards left with their swords, the huntsmen left with their dogs, and all Lady Bolton could do was pray to the gods for her safety.

Many servants tried to get her out of the cold and into the warm keep, but she sent them all away. "If my daughter is out there in the cold," she said, "what right do I have to the warmth of a keep? Until she returns, I'm staying right here."

Hilda, who had been praying in the godswood, joined the distraught mother in the yard. "They will find her, my lady," she said. "I feel it in my bones."

"It's my fault," Lady Bolton confessed. "I tried to send her away, but she refuses to leave this place. She says she's a Bolton and the Dreadfort is her home."

Hilda shook her head. "The Dreadfort is no place for a child."

"I know," Lady Bolton replied. "That's why I sent Domeric away. How he kicked and screamed when I left him in Barrowton with my sister, but he is better off because of it. And now he is far away in the Vale, serving as a squire for Lord Redfort. He'll groom him well. Maybe he'll even become a knight. I hope he does. As much as it pains me to say it, I hope he never comes back."

"He is Lord Bolton's son and heir," said Hilda. "He will have to return eventually. One day, his father will call him home. There's no stopping that."

Minutes later, Lord Roose Bolton emerged from the keep and approached the two women. As soon as she saw him coming, Hilda stepped back, dropped her gaze, and acknowledged him with a half-murmured "My lord."

"Leave us," he ordered, and Hilda did as he bid.

Lady Bolton kept her eyes fixed to the portcullis, refusing to grant her lord husband even the briefest glance. By now, she knew that it was best to exude strength when in his presence and to remain silent when he spoke. But he didn't speak, not for a long while. He just stood beside her, offering neither comfort nor condemnation. If he had been any other man, Lady Bolton might have expected him to strike her, but Lord Bolton would never strike his wife. He didn't have to. His words were damaging enough.

"If you lose another one of my children," he said in a calm yet commanding tone, "I will make you rue the day your father gave me your hand."

"Yes, my lord," Lady Bolton answered. "For her safety, she should be sent far away from me … to Barrowton, perhaps."

"That would please you, wouldn't it? Your sister has already stolen one of my children. Then she shipped him off to the Vale without my permission. No, Drucilla will stay here where she belongs, and you will never be alone with her again."

His words were a dagger to her heart, but she accepted them nevertheless and said, "Yes, my lord."

Finally, after hours of waiting and worrying, the portcullis slowly opened as three men on horseback came galloping toward the gate. Steelshanks Walton led the party himself. Lady Bolton recognized his steel greaves before she even saw his face, and then she noticed the little girl who sat in front of him, huddled close to his chest. Her face was sullen and grey, and her coat was full of blood, but Drucilla was alive, and for that her mother thanked the gods.

When Steelshanks entered the yard, Lady Bolton rushed to him right away, intending to take Drucilla and bring her into the safety of her warm embrace. Before Lady Bolton could reach her, however, two guards stepped forward and blocked her path.

"What are you doing?" she asked them. "Let me pass."

The men held their ground, and when the lady attempted to go around them, one grabbed her arm and yanked her back with a sharp tug. For that, she slapped him hard across the face. He took the blow without so much as a flinch.

"Escort my wife to her chambers," Lord Bolton ordered as he strode past them. "She has had a very long and stressful day. She needs to rest."

"Yes, m'lord. Come with me, m'lady."

"You will not touch me!" Lady Bolton growled, ripping her arm away from the guard's chasing grasp. "I can escort myself." Then she threw her husband a fierce glare and stormed off toward the keep.

By then, Hilda had stepped forward to take the child from Steelshanks. With gentle hands, the old woman guided the girl down from the horse and then carefully wiped away the blood and dirt from her pale, frozen cheeks. Upon reaching her little nose, the old woman gave it an affectionate flick that made her giggle.

"Take her to her chambers," Lord Bolton commanded, "and have Maester Uthor tend to her wounds."

"Yes, my lord," Hilda answered, and then she took the girl's hand and led her away. "Come along, child."

The old woman took Drucilla to her bedchamber, where she carefully washed away all the blood and dirt from the child's body and helped her change into some warm, clean clothes. Shortly after, Maester Uthor arrived to stitch and dress the child's wounds. He was an old man, well past seventy, with a long, saggy face and large bags under his tired blue eyes. When Drucilla was a babe in her cradle, she used to tug and tap the folds of wrinkled skin that hung within reach. Even now she was tempted to do it.

"You were very brave today," Maester Uthor said as he carefully stitched the three deepest cuts on her forearms. The others, he determined, weren't severe enough to require sutures. Little more than scratches, he said, and so he just slathered the cuts with a poultice of mustard seed, nettles, and bread mold to prevent infection.

"I wasn't brave," Drucilla answered as she watched his sharp needle move in and out of her flesh. Every so often, the needle would prick a tender spot and make the girl wince, but she refused to take anything to dull the pain. "If I was brave, I would have killed him. I just ran away and hid. That doesn't take courage."

"Oh, sure it does. And a great deal of wit, too. You're clever, just like your mother."

Drucilla frowned. "I'm nothing like her. She's weak."

"You shouldn't speak like that about your mother."

"I don't care. I hate her. She wants to send me away to live with my aunt."

"She's only doing what she thinks is best. When you become a mother, you will understand." With a loop, swoop, and pull, he knotted the thread and then trimmed off the excess string. "And now you've survived your first suture." He bandaged both her arms with strips of linen.

"Will I have scars?" she asked. "Will I be ugly?"

"You may have some scars, yes, but you will never be ugly." He might have been trying to smile, but the thick folds on his face made it impossible for the girl to tell. "Good night, little lady."

"Good night, Maester Uthor."

Sluggishly, the old man made his way out the door while Hilda came over to tuck Drucilla in for the night. She pulled the blankets over the child layer by layer until she felt warm and snug. Then she bent down to place a kiss on the girl's forehead. "Good night, my lady. Rest well."

"Hilda," Drucilla uttered when the woman pulled away, "can you sit with me for a little longer? Just until I fall asleep?"

Hilda smiled. "Of course, my lady," and then she pulled up a wooden chair and sat down at the girl's bedside.

Drucilla pulled the blankets up to her chin and stared around the room. To her right, a great fire crackled and burned. Hilda sat in front of the fire, singing a song from her youth in hopes that it would put the child to sleep. If she really wanted the girl to sleep, though, all she had to do was tell one of her stories. But Hilda thought she was a good singer.

She was wrong.

Letting out a quiet yawn, Drucilla rolled onto her other side and listened to the wind howl through the wooden shutters. When she closed her eyes, she was still trapped in the forest, clinging to that oak tree and waiting for him to find her.

"Hilda," she said, catching the singing woman by surprise, "how many men guard the Dreadfort?"

"Hmm, I don't know, dear. I never counted them myself. Plenty, I'm sure. Why do you ask?"

"I was just curious."

"Drucilla, nobody can hurt you here. Nobody."

"I know."

But he was still out there, that boy with eyes like hers. She'd defeated him at his favorite game, a game which he had never lost before. So wherever he was now, whether in the forest or in the cottage by the river, he was alive and he was angry; Drucilla knew that for certain.

Slowly, the child's bandaged hand crept underneath her pillow and retrieved another sharp knife she'd stolen from the smithy. _His eyes are like Father's_, she thought as she traced her fingertips over the smooth blade. _Why are his eyes like Father's?_


	4. CHAPTER 4

**Chapter 4: Stitches**

"Crack!" went Damon's whip as it snapped across the woman's back.

Her cries echoed through the great hall, but they fell on deaf ears and blind eyes. In that dark and smoky room, only the dead took pity on her. Their skeletons lined the walls, empty mouths forever silenced, hollow eyes stuck in a permanent stare. They watched the miller's poor widowed wife collapse to her knees and beg for mercy. Warm blood dripped down her backside and soaked the straw-covered floor with red. Her dress split at the back and fell from her shoulders. At Damon's command, the whip recoiled with a soft hiss and then struck her again, and again, and again. The woman's skin kept a faithful tally of his progress.

_Crack! - _"Ahh!"

_Crack! - "Ahh!"_

_Crack! - "AHH!"_

Like the great snake charmers across the narrow sea, Damon Dance-for-Me enchanted his long, greased whip to dance seamlessly through the air, making it twist and bend and then lash out with a sharp sting that could bring any man to his knees. And every time he heard that searing snap that ripped and tore at the woman's pale flesh, his smile grew a little brighter. It was the only time he ever truly smiled.

The whip jumped up and nipped at the woman's cheek. "Please!" cried the miller's widow. "Please, m'lord! Have mercy!"

Lord Roose Bolton, seated upon his great chair, brought the lashings to a halt with a subtle lift of his hand. Damon obeyed and, wearing a reluctant frown, called back his whip while two other men pulled the woman to her feet. As soon as they stepped away, her weak, wobbly legs gave out and her knees smashed onto the stone. Nobody helped her back up.

Slowly, she staggered to her feet. "Thank you, m'lord," uttered the miller's widow as she struggled to hold up what little remained of her dress, but the thin, tattered fabric kept slipping through her fingers. Sooner than she expected, it fell to the floor, taking her last shred of dignity with it.

They had seized her from her home, five men carrying the Bolton's pink-and-red banner. They came just as the morning mists were rolling across the Weeping Water. The miller's widow was still asleep when they broke down her door and dragged her out of bed.

"Where is the boy?" they asked, first with their words and then with their fists. When she couldn't answer, they used other means, the kind only men knew. She lay face-down in the dirt, her lip busted and wrist broken, while each of the five had his turn. And when they were finished with her, they brought her to the Dreadfort and threw her in a dungeon cell, where they kept her for three days, denying her food and drink. If not for the rainwater that dripped from the ceiling, the woman may have died of thirst, as many men did down there in the darkness. _  
_

_Those men are lucky_, she decided as she sucked in the musty air. Bare-bodied, bruised, and bleeding, the woman stood with her eyes fixed to the floor and waited with bated breath for her lord to speak.

"Where is your son?" asked Lord Bolton, glaring down at her with those pale, pale eyes. "I will not ask you again."

"I don't know, m'lord," she rasped. "I - I went to the market in Blackburrow, and when I came back he was gone. Stole a horse and fled, I suspect. He must have. I swear to the gods I don't know where he is. I never know where he is. Ramsay goes wherever he pleases. Always has. But me, I can't control him. He never listens to me. He never listens to anyone. I've tried to discipline him — I've tried everything — but nothing works. Frankly, m'lord, I'm afraid to say anything. He gets so violent, you see, for no reason at all, and he does things … horrible things, the kinds of things that belong in nightmares."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"If …" She started to wring her aching hands. "If I could just have some help with him, m'lord. Someone to guide him and teach him. The boy needs a father."

"You want me to help raise your son? Is that what you're asking of your lord?"

"No, m'lord, I just—"

"Your son is your responsibility. Yours and yours alone. If he ever comes near my children again, I'll have you both hanged from the same tree as your husband. Do you understand?"

The woman dropped her head. "Yes, m'lord. Forgive me, m'lord."

When all was settled, Lord Bolton sent her away with a flick of his wrist and then sat back in his chair. _Help me, she says. The boy needs a father. If you ask me, the boy needs to be leeched. Leeches are good for that. They suck away all the bad blood. As for me, I should have thrown him into the river when she first brought him to me. If not for his blood, I would have._

A quiet cough stole Lord Bolton from his thoughts. The kennelmaster had entered the great hall with his small daughter in tow. Every so often, the girl would poke her head out from behind his legs and blink her green eyes before ducking back into safety.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, m'lord," said the kennelmaster, "but something very serious has happened. I thought you should know."

"Go on."

"It's my daughter, Myranda. Someone has … Well, you'd best see for yourself." He turned toward the child and patted her head with a gentle hand. "Go on, dear. Show his lordship what happened."

But the girl shook her head and clung tightly to his leg.

"Myranda, darling, there's nothing to be afraid of. You did nothing wrong." He plucked her from his leg and pushed her forward. "Go on, child. Show him."

Myranda lingered in the middle of the hall, tugging nervously at the sleeves of the dress her mother made, the last dress she made. Little better than rags, really, with all its patches and sloppy stitches, but it brought her comfort when she was anxious.

Today, she was very anxious.

The men glared down at her as she shuffled past them: Horace Heartcleaver, Marvin the Maneater, and the Butcher with his sharp flaying knife. The skeletons on the walls threatened to drop their torches and drag her into the shadows where nobody would be able to hear her scream. It had happened to one child, Drucilla once claimed, when they dared to lie to her lord father.

Myranda gulped and looked up at Lord Bolton, more frightening than all of them combined.

"Come, girl," Lord Bolton said, beckoning her with his hand.

The girl obeyed. She stepped through the smoke and then ascended the dais and approached the high table. Only then, when the torchlights illuminated her face, could Lord Bolton see the threads of silk which bound the child's bloody, swollen lips together.

The stitch pattern was familiar to him. He'd seen it before, on a rag doll his daughter had sewn together herself. She'd brought it with her to breakfast one morning, and Lady Bolton complimented the design. But there was something strange, his wife noticed, and that was the jagged stitching over the mouth. When asked about it, Drucilla explained that it was intentional. "Now, she can't tell my secrets."

"Does it hurt?" Lord Bolton asked the child.

Myranda nodded.

"I see." He sent the girl back to her father. "Take her to Maester Uthor. Leave the rest to me." Then he set his eyes upon Horace Heartcleaver, a great brute who stood nearly as tall as the Mountain. "Find my daughter and bring her to me."

He answered with a deep grunt. "Yes, m'lord."

Sometime later, Horace Heartcleaver entered Lord Bolton's private chambers with young Drucilla at his side. "Found her in the dungeons again, m'lord. No doubt she was sneakin' 'round and tryin' to steal a glimpse. Last week, I found her in one of the torture chambers with a knife in her hand. Think she was lookin' for a man to flay."

"No," Drucilla calmly protested, "I wasn't going to flay anyone. I don't even know how. I just wanted to look. I was curious is all."

Lord Bolton set down his quill. "And why were the gates unlocked in the first place? Tell me, how did an eight-year-old girl manage to slip past all the guards unnoticed? That is the greater problem, and I suggest you work to fix it. Now, leave us. I want to speak to my daughter alone."

With a bow of his head, Horace Heartcleaver took his leave.

Lord Bolton made a beckoning gesture with his hand, prompting Drucilla to begin her tentative approach. One foot in front of the other, she dragged her feet across the wood floor.

"Closer," her lord father said. "Closer."

And Drucilla stepped closer and closer still until she was standing right beside him. Even while sitting, Lord Bolton towered over the child, but Drucilla had always been small for her age, small and skinny like a twig. She'd inherited that from her mother's side, no doubt, as the Ryswells were rather short compared to other Northerners. Small but no less cunning, especially Lord Rodrick. Lord Bolton made sure to keep a close eye on him and his children. Lady Barbrey was the worst of them. Since the death of her husband, Lord William Dustin, she had a lot of time on her hands. Too much time.

Lord Bolton leaned down until he was at the child's eye level. "What were you doing in the dungeons?" he asked.

"I was just exploring."

His eyes were like ice. "Lying is not a talent you possess. I'll ask you one more time. What were you doing in the dungeons?"

"I wanted to … I wanted to see the torture chambers. I wanted to see if they really flay men alive down there and if there is a room that houses the skins of our enemies. I wanted to see if the stories were true."

"The Starks have outlawed the practice of flaying."

"Yes, but traditions aren't so easily abandoned, are they, Father?" The child had a smile on her face and a sparkle in her eye.

He sat back. "The kennelmaster came to see me today. He brought his daughter with him. Someone had sewn the girl's mouth shut. You wouldn't happen to know who did it, would you?"

"No, Father. I'm just as surprised as you are. That is horrible, horrible news. I do hope she's all right."

"Drucilla, I know you did it."

"How? She hasn't named me as her attacker. There were no witnesses. How can you be sure it was me? It could have been anybody, really."

"Not anybody. _You_."

She shrugged. "She was speaking ill of you, Father. I heard her talking to one of the other serving girls. Violet I think her name was. She called you a monster. _The Leech Lord_. Should I have done nothing? Should I have stood there and let her dishonor our family? She needed to be punished, so I punished her."

"Drucilla, what have I told you?"

The child stared into his haunting grey eyes and saw her own reflection. "Restraint. We must always practice restraint. We do not make spectacles of ourselves."

He nodded. "Very good. And that means you will not be so careless from now on. You're lucky no one saw you, but luck will not always be on your side. You must be careful."

Drucilla smiled. "Yes, Father."

Then he took her arms and lifted her sleeves to expose the bandages underneath. Thirteen red lines had soaked through the linen, each a little longer than the last, a little deeper.

"Will you kill him?" Drucilla asked. "The boy who attacked me, will you kill him?"

"Would that please you?"

Drucilla nodded. "Very much."

His cold hand cupped the child's face. "Run along now. And stay out of the dungeons."

"Yes, Father." Drucilla made it as far as the door before she stopped and turned around again. Her father's head was bent over a stack of parchment and his hand was furiously scribbling the letters of his name: page after page after page.

"Father," she said, bringing his eyes to her, "do I really have to go to Barrowton? Mother said she was going to send me away to live with Aunt Barbrey. I don't want to go."

"And you won't. You are my daughter, and your place is here."

A sudden shriek came in through the window, an awful noise, like the grating caw of a crow. Lord Bolton went to the window to investigate and Drucilla quickly followed. To get a better look, she gripped the windowsill with both hands and rose onto the tips of her toes.

Outside in the upper bailey, Reek was thrashing about on the ground while Damon made his whip dance. He'd gotten into Lady Bolton's perfumes again. This time he tried to drink them, the fool. It was a shame he didn't die. They always prayed for it, even when he was within earshot, and one always knew when Reek was nearby. Probably did it on purpose, most of them, hoping he would answer their prayers and drown himself in the Weeping Water.

"We should send him away," Drucilla said. "He's no good to us here."

_But where would we send him?_ Lord Bolton wondered. _Who would want such a foul creature?_ And then he recalled the widow's plea. It was help she wanted, help with her son. Reek was certainly no father figure, but he was a man no less. If nothing else, he would provide the boy with some entertainment, and the Dreadfort would have one less pest skulking about.

Lord Bolton placed his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Don't worry, dear. Soon he'll be someone else's problem."


	5. CHAPTER 5

**Chapter 5: On the Run**

Deep in the wood, Ramsay collapsed against the tree trunk and gasped for the breath he'd lost during the escape. His throat burned with thirst. His feet ached with every step. Heavy, his legs had become so heavy from fatigue, but he had to keep moving because the flayed men were after him. Pink and red. Everywhere he went, all he saw was pink and red, and the flayed men never abandoned the chase. They came on horseback, dozens of men armed with swords and whips and flails. The huntsmen brought their dogs: large, ferocious beasts with a taste for human flesh. Ramsay dashed through a shallow stream when he heard them approaching, and then he fled into the southern wood.

In his hand Ramsay still clutched the knife, sharp and covered with blood. Her blood. The Bolton girl. Her sweet, sweet blood was all over him: on his clothes, on his face, in his hair. He could taste it on his tongue when he licked the deep gash on his lower lip. She'd busted it open during the struggle. Her tiny fist flew up and smashed against his mouth, knocking a few of his bottom teeth loose. She was stronger than she looked, much stronger. Years it had been since he'd suffered such a painful blow, but it was a pleasurable kind of pain. It awakened something inside him, a part of him he thought long dead.

Frankly, he'd grown bored of his game. His past playmates had never put up much of a fight. They ran and hid like frightened children, and they cried for their mothers when the game was over. The Bolton girl never cried; she never begged for mercy. She fought him 'til the very end.

But then their game was interrupted, and his prize was stolen from him. More than anything, he wanted to finish the game and claim the victory he'd earned.

When he thought back on that night, he could still see the fear in her grey eyes, and the anger which smoldered underneath. The anger, that was what stuck with him, and now, as the memory of it started to fade from his mind, a single question remained. It burrowed deep into his thoughts like a hungry maggot feasting on dead tissue:

Why, when he looked into her eyes, did he see his own staring back at him?

Unable to answer that question himself, Ramsay pushed the thought to the back of his mind and continued on. South he was heading, as far south as he could get, far away from the Boltons and their flayed men.

As he was trudging across the plains with the wind against him, Ramsay came upon an old man leading a horse-drawn cart. The man was a farmer who served House Bolton, and he was returning home from a visit to the castle.

Right away, the farmer noticed the boy's blood-splattered clothes. "What happened to you, boy?"

"My family was attacked," Ramsay lied as he fingered the knife he kept hidden behind his back. "They came in the middle of the night while we were all asleep. They murdered my mother and my father and my brothers. Cut them down one after another. I barely managed to escape with my life. Been runnin' ever since."

The old man's brow wrinkled. "Must've been quite the struggle from the look uh yuh."

"Yes, it was. I'm lucky to be alive."

"I'll say." He reached beneath his cap and scratched at his itching scalp. "Well I can't in good conscience leave yuh out here alone. If the cold doesn't get yuh, somethin' else will. Come now, the house isn't far from here. We can make it before nightfall."

And so Ramsay went with the old man to his farmhouse. Along the way, the farmer shared stories of his past travels and the fascinating people he'd met on the road, like a ship cook who claimed to have sailed to Skagos, the most feared island in the North, and had a deadly encounter with the Skagosi:

"Said his ship was lured to its barren shores by mysterious lights in the night, and the Skaggs were waitin' for 'em. Dangerous folk, those Skaggs, little better than wildlings if yuh ask me. As tall as giants they stood, and they carried great axes and spears caked with blood. They captured the men, all of 'em, burned their ship and then brought 'em to their moutain village. The captain and the first mate, the Skaggs sacrificed 'em both to the gods. Cut their throats and drained 'em dry before the weirwoods. As for the crew, some they roasted over a fire that very night. The cook and the others, they had to sit 'n watch while the Skaggs tore at their flesh, slurped on their bones, and licked their fingers clean. Of the survivors, half were killed and stored for the coming winter. The others were kept as slaves."

"So what happened to the cook?" Ramsay asked. "How'd he escape?"

The old man shrugged. "Don't know. Never asked him. S'pose I should've, but that was ages ago, and I had fields to tend. There was no time for talkin' to ship cooks, not with winter comin'n all. As for me, I've only seen one Skagg m'self, and that's Marvin the Maneater. Terrifyin' man, a real brute. Say, where did yuh say yuh came from again?"

"I didn't," Ramsay replied. "My family lived along the Weeping Water. My father was an ice fisherman."

"A good trade. Dangerous, though, very dangerous. I s'pose yuh heard about what happened to the poor Bolton girl, then. Awful tragedy that was."

Upon hearing her name, Ramsay reached for the knife on his belt. "Yes, a terrible tragedy. I do hope she's all right."

"She died, the poor thing. Should've never been in the water in the first place. Happens all the time, though. People fall through the ice or get swept up by the current. Those waters are dangerous. As for the other girl, Drucilla, she's just like her father, they say. Cold and cunning. Sewed a girl's mouth shut, last I heard. Not the first time she's done it either. She's got a sickness, that one. It's in her blood. Scary to think what she'll be like when she's full grown. If the gods are good, she'll die before that."

The old man slapped his hand over his mouth. "I shouldn't have said that. Forget what I said, boy. The Boltons will have my tongue if they hear I said such a thing. Drucilla's a sweet girl, just troubled. With any luck, she'll turn out like her brother. Domeric, he's a good lad. Takes after his mother. One day, he'll come back from the Vale and claim his birthright. We all pray for his safe return."

Ramsay smiled. "I'm sure he'll make a great lord one day."

"And may he rule for a long, long time."

* * *

Just as the farmer predicted, they reached the house before nightfall. His dutiful wife was waiting for him at the door. She was a kind old woman with snow-white hair and tiny wrinkles in the corners of her blue eyes, which still held their youthful shine. When he arrived, the farmer greeted her with a tender kiss on the cheek and then explained the situation.

"His family's gone," he said. "I couldn't just leave him there."

"No, of course not." She looked at Ramsay with a sympathetic frown. "You poor dear. Oh, you must be so frightened. Come, let's get you some warm clothes. I think I have some that'll fit you just fine."

She led him into a small bedroom and started digging through the trunk at the foot of the bed. "This room used to belong to my youngest, Damon, but he's long gone now. Hasn't visited in years. He's up in the Dreadfort, you know, serving under Lord Bolton. He never much cared for farming. None of my boys did. As for my girls, they liked it well enough, but they all got married and left." She found some suitable clothes and handed them to Ramsay. "Those should fit you. You look about the same size as Damon was when he was your age. I kept them for future grandchildren, but seeing as I don't have any around, I'm glad they're being put to good use." She left the room then and later returned with a pitcher of water and poured it into the small wash basin. "I've got supper cooking now. After you've finished washing up, you can sit down to a nice hot meal."

"Thank you," Ramsay said with a polite smile. "It's nice to know there are still decent folk like you around."

The farmer's wife closed the door behind her. Ramsay pulled off his soiled clothes and tossed them on the floor. The water felt warm against his frozen skin. He washed away all the blood and dirt from his arms, neck, and face and then patted himself dry with a rag. The knife, he washed that too, and then he concealed it in the waist of his new pair of trousers.

* * *

Night soon fell. Ramsay sat at the table and hungrily consumed his supper. He took the soup bowl in his hands and gulped down every last drop; then he set down the bowl and gave a satisfied smile. "This is absolutely delicious, really. I've never much cared for cabbage, but my mother says it's rude to turn down a meal from your host. Eat it all, she says, every last bite." He took his knife and cut himself a piece of bread. It crunched between his teeth as he continued to talk. "You haven't even touched your supper. Am I really such a horrible guest?"

Ramsay glanced back and forth between the farmer and his wife. The silent couple sat in their chairs and stared at each other from across the table.

"I know," Ramsay went on, "I shouldn't talk with my mouth full, should I? It's bad manners."

When he reached for another piece of bread, he heard a loud thud that shook the table. The farmer was drowning in his soup bowl. From his open throat poured a trickling stream of blood that dripped, dripped, dripped onto the floor. His wife had five deep gashes in her chest.

Ramsay frowned. "Am I not allowed seconds? I am a growing boy, after all." Then he grabbed his cup of ale and drank it down. "I appreciate your hospitality, and I hope you understand why I had to kill you. The flayed men will be coming here soon enough. I can't have you telling them where I am. There's a game I still need to finish, and a question I need answered."

He stood up and wiped his mouth clean. "Thank you for the lovely supper," he said, and then he blew out the candles and went to his bedroom.

There he slept until dawn broke and the sunlight poured in through the window. That morning, he was awoken by the sound of a heavy fist pounding on the door. After days of running, the flayed men had found him at last. They broke down the door and entered the farmhouse, but Ramsay had already climbed out the window and fled. He made it only as far as the stables before an arrow to the calf brought him down. Then he heard the dogs barking at his back.

"Finally caught the little bastard." The archer seized Ramsay by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to his knees. "Thought you could get away, eh?"

His iron fist caught the boy square on the cheekbone, and the ground came rushing fast. Ramsay spat blood into the dirt and attempted to rise, but then a foot smashed into his ribs and knocked the air out of his lungs.

"That's enough," a voice said.

When Ramsay was yanked up a second time, he felt a dog's hot breath on his face. Two black eyes glared at him with a deep, deep hunger, ready to attack at the master's command. The beast snarled. It growled. It waited.

"I've got a message from Lord Bolton," the man said. "If you come near his children again, he'll have your flesh peeled off your bones and hung on a wall. The rest of you will go to the dogs. Understand?"

Ramsay managed a weak nod.

He gave the boy's face a light smack. "That's a good lad. Now, let's get you back home where you belong. I bet your mother's worried sick."

* * *

The miller's widow was picking up the pieces of her broken home when her son returned. Clutching his side, Ramsay limped into the house with a swollen cheek and half an arrow protruding from his leg.

His mother looked at him with tired, half-lidded eyes, but she spoke not a word. Alone in their home, mother and son stood across from each other and observed the wounds the other had suffered. A broken wrist. A cracked rib. Bruised and bloody, the both of them, but they offered no comfort to each other. The miller's widow resumed her cleaning, and Ramsay walked out to the riverbank.

He fell into the water with a splash and floated a dead man's float: arms and legs outstretched, eyes staring into the grey sky. He completely surrendered himself to the river. The cold water stung his skin like a thousand sharp needles. Then he felt nothing at all, not the pain in his side nor the soreness of his cheek. He was pleasantly numb to everything.

With one last breath, he let himself drown.

"Ramsay." His mother's muffled voice penetrated the water's surface. "Ramsay, get out of there before you freeze yourself solid."

At her call, Ramsay floated back to the surface. His mother was waiting for him on the riverbank, but she was not alone. Beside her stood a man dressed in dirty rags, with sallow skin and droopy eyes. He swatted the flies which buzzed around his head, but they always came back. Mistook him for a pile of shit, probably, because he certainly smelled like one. The stench of him forced the miller's widow to cover her nose and step away.

"Who are you?" Ramsay asked the smelly man. "What are you doing here?"

The man dropped his gaze and scratched at his neck like a dog with fleas. "R-Reek, they've always called me Reek. Lord Bolton sent me — to serve you."

"Reek?" Ramsay climbed onto the riverbank and approached his smelly new companion. When he got close enough, he took a whiff of the air around him and grinned. "Because you reek!" He laughed at the cleverness of it.

His mother glared at the servant. "The Boltons are mocking us. We should send him back."

"No," Ramsay said. "Reek is my gift, and so he belongs to me now. You can't send him away; I won't let you. You suggested I get a friend. Well, Reek will be my friend." He smiled at his new friend. "Do you like games, Reek?"


	6. CHAPTER 6

**Chapter 6: A Raven Comes to Redfort**

Nowhere in Westeros was summer more sweetly felt than in the Vale of Arryn.

After the snow melted and the ice thawed, the fertile valleys of the Vale became lush and beautiful. Wildflowers awoke from their slumber and burst into bloom. The deep waters glistened like sapphire and flowed like satin. Nowhere was the grass greener or the fruit sweeter, not even in Highgarden.

This paradise, however, was short-lived. As soon as summer ended and the fierce winter winds started to blow, the snow would silence the Vale once more.

It was there, nestled deep within the secluded southern valley, where the seat of House Redfort lay. The founders of the house had designed Redfort to be well hidden from unwelcome guests. The valley was accessible only by a series of perilous mountain passes, which were subject to frequent rockfalls and stalked by hungry shadowcats. The castle itself had been carved into the high cliffs which flanked the Red River at either side. Ornate caves, most considered them, but they were neither dark nor damp. Instead, they were rather warm and pleasant, with green gardens and grand fountains and a library tower that housed more books than a man could read in his lifetime. Outside, a great stone bridge stretched across the river and connected the two gatehouses. During the winter, when the river froze over and the heavy snows filled the valley, Redfort stood out like a drop of blood in a pit of snow.

Indeed, the Redforts enjoyed their seclusion, but they enjoyed their warfare just as much. Lord Horton was a dangerous man, many knew. Even though old age had bent his body and turned his hair grey, he was still someone to be feared and respected. The old man knew the ways of war, and he knew how to turn young boys into seasoned warriors and gallant knights. For that, Lord Bolton considered himself lucky that his son and heir had been invited to Redfort to serve as a squire to Lord Horton.

There the boy had lived for four long years. At first Domeric hated Redfort, but soon it felt like home, and he came to love Lord Horton's sons as the brothers he never had.

But, he had to remind himself, they were not his true brothers and Redfort was not his true home. Domeric was a Bolton by blood, and he belonged in the Dreadfort. One day his lord father would call him home, and he would have no choice but to obey.

Until that day came, Domeric cherished his time in Redfort, and nothing pleased him more than his daily ride through the valley. According to Lord Horton, the boy rode like he'd been born on a saddle, and he had a natural talent for the joust. With the right training, he would be tourney champion one day.

"Just think of it, Domeric," said Creighton Redfort as the two stood upon the high hills which overlooked the vast farmlands beyond. "Soon, you and I will be named knights of the Vale, and the whole world will open up to us. We can go to the Eyrie, to Highgarden, or to King's Landing even, and participate in the tourneys. Have you ever been to a tourney? I swear, there is nothing else like it. As long as I live, I will always remember the first one I attended.

"When Father took his third wife, he held a grand tourney in her honor, and all the knights of the Vale came to Redfort. Ser Robar Royce was a heavy favorite to win. Jasper said no man had ever unhorsed him and no man ever would. Ser Robar rode like the wind and struck like lightning. One after another, all his opponents fell until there was only one knight left: the newly knighted Ser Dorrin Waynwood. Cassandra took a liking to him straight away. All the young ladies did, and they all wanted Ser Dorrin to wear their favors. They waved them around like banners and passionately declared their love to the young, handsome knight. But Ser Dorrin rode past them all, some of the fairest ladies in the Vale, and he instead accepted the white hair ribbon of Cassandra Redfort, who was only nine years old at the time. To this day, she insists that it was her white ribbon that won Ser Dorrin his victory. By all accounts, Ser Dorrin should not have won, but he did. He was the first man to unhorse Ser Robar Royce. The only man so far."

"So where is the great Ser Dorrin now?" Domeric asked. "I must admit I have never heard of him."

Creighton's smile disappeared. "He's dead. The next morning, the innkeeper found him in his room. His throat had been cut in his sleep, ear to ear. If you ask anyone, they'll tell you it was one of the angry lords who did it. They felt cheated by Ser Dorrin's sudden stroke of luck. It robbed them of a lot of money, after all. But to this day Ser Dorrin remains a legend in the Vale. What I wouldn't give to have that for myself."

Domeric laughed. "You want to be accused of cheating and have your throat cut in your sleep?"

"Gods no! I want to be tourney champion. I want to hear the crowd screaming my name, and I want fair ladies begging me to wear their favors. Most of all, I want to be a legend just like Ser Dorrin. Yes, he is dead, but they still sing songs about his great victory. They will continue to do so long after we're both dead. I can think of no greater honor for myself. Surely you agree with me. We've always talked about it, haven't we?"

"Yes, of course, but that was just talk. We were children then. We had no real responsibilities, the two of us. Things are different now, much different. You are second-born, Creighton, but I am first-born and heir to the Dreadfort. I am not free to travel the world as you can. I must be prepared to rule once my lord father passes. One day, the raven will come, and I will have to return home where I belong."

"But you don't belong there," Creighton said with a passionate fire in his voice. "This is your home now. Father thinks of you as a son, and I love you like a brother. You must stay, Domeric. You have nothing in the Dreadfort."

"I have my family: my father, my mother, and my sister. You are like a brother to me, Creighton, and I will love you always, but I cannot turn my back on my blood. Don't you see? I must go back."

Though his frown remained, Creighton nodded. "But not today. Today, you are still my brother, and as my brother, you must accept my challenge. A race is what I want, a race to decide once and for all who is the better rider. You and I shall have a race back to Redfort. The loser must clean the stables for a week. Do you accept?"

Domeric smirked and seized the reins with both hands. "I accept."

At the count of three, the two young men took off down the hill. Creighton, mounting the faster steed, stole the early lead. His light brown hair rippled in the cool morning breeze. His boastful laugh echoed through the valley. "Come, Domeric, is that as fast as you can go? At least make it a challenge for me!"

"I'm just giving you a head start. You're doing quite well. I'd hate to discourage you now."

"Spare me your kindness. If I am to defeat you, I want to defeat you at your best. Otherwise my victory is meaningless."

"Very well. If that's the way you want it …"

Creighton glanced over his shoulder. "Yes, that is the way I—" His mouth fell open and his blue eyes bulged in disbelief. Domeric was quickly closing the large gap between them. Smaller and smaller it became until the two boys were side by side, and Domeric was wearing a wide grin. That grin was the last thing Creighton saw before the Bolton boy raged ahead and left Creighton choking on his dust.

The boy was still picking tiny grains of dirt out of his teeth when he finally reached the castle. By then, Domeric had already unsaddled his horse and was waiting outside the stables. He welcomed his friend back with a cocky smile that demanded Creighton's immediate surrender.

"Fine, fine," conceded Creighton as he threw up his hands in defeat. "You are the better rider. For now, at least."

"Lost again, did you?" said Jon Redfort as he approached the stables. Since dawn broke, the twelve-year-old had been condemned to the armory, where he spent the better part of his morning sharpening Ser Jasper Redfort's blade and polishing his brand new suit of armor until, as Jasper so cleverly put it, the knight could count every single one of his freckles in the steel.

"May I never see another suit of armor again," Jon declared. "I swear, I'd rather spend my days as a mummer. Send me to the Wall. Send me to the Citadel. Send me far away from here. Just get me away from Jasper and that wretched armor of his."

"Well that's what you get for slipping that purgative into his supper. Honestly, what did you think would happen?"

Jon laughed at the memory. "It was worth it, though. Jasper spent the whole day in the privy. Stunk it up rotten, too. Made the servants sick to their stomaches."

"He nearly died, if you remember."

Jon shrugged. "One too many drops, I suppose. Unfortunately, he's still no less uptight. Ever since Father knighted him, he's been terrible company. All he does is boss us around. You'd think he was our lord from the way he's acting. Last time I checked, Father is still alive and well."

Domeric could stay silent no longer. "He has a heavy burden on his shoulders. You don't understand what it means to be the first-born."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I know. Jasper has all the responsibilities while I get to live like a fool. Father has told me this dozens of times. Makes no difference, though. He has no right to act like such a — Ahh!"

Jon Redfort nearly jumped out of his boots when he saw his older brother approaching. Although he still had the hairless face of a babe, something which frustrated him to no end, Ser Jasper Redfort was powerful in body and in mind. His lord father had groomed him well.

Beside him walked little Mychel Redfort, who'd happily volunteered to serve as his squire. He possessed the brown hair of his half siblings, but he'd inherited the brown eyes of his mother, Lord Redfort's second wife, while his brothers and sisters had the dark blue eyes of House Belmore or the green eyes of House Westbrook. On quiet nights, one could still hear the child's muffled sobs for his lost mother, but he put on a strong face when in the company of his older brothers.

"What were you saying just now, brother?" Jasper asked. "I have no right to act like such a _what_?"

Already, Jon could feel the beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck. His lips curled into sheepish smile. "A fine gentleman, as honorable as you are merciful, truly. And you will have mercy on your poor, foolish younger brother. He knows not what he says. Please, show him mercy."

Jasper's face remained stern, but his clenched jaw was holding back a chuckle. It brought him great pleasure to watch his little brother squirm. "Have you polished my armor as I requested?"

"Yes, you can count your every freckle, ser, and you can see your long beak of a nose as well." He snickered quietly to himself. Even little Mychel surrendered a giggle, but the boy quickly smothered the sound with his fist and reclaimed his composure. "Is there anything else you require of me?" Jon asked.

"At the moment, no, but I will send for you if I need anything else." Jasper then turned to Domeric and handed him a small scroll of parchment. "A message from the Dreadfort," he reported, and then he turned and took his leave. Young Mychel followed him like a shadow.

Domeric swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. _So the day has come at last_, he thought as he stared down at the unopened scroll. A tiny ribbon held its shape, red as blood.

"It might not be what you think it is," Creighton said.

"And it might be exactly what I think it is," replied Domeric. "My father is not one for pleasantries."

In all the years he'd spent away from home, Domeric had received only one message from his father. Six years ago, a raven blacker than night came flapping over the walls of Barrowton. Domeric watched it from the window of his bedchamber, and he knew it brought grave news. That was the day he learned of Deanna's death.

"A letter from my father means one of two things: someone has died or …" With quivering fingers, Domeric slowly pulled off the ribbon and unrolled the scroll. He read the message silently to himself while his friends anxiously awaited the news. Lord Bolton's words were few and frank and impossible to misinterpret. To his son, he had only one request.

"Well, what does it say?" Jon pressed.

Domeric closed his fist around the parchment. "He wants me to return home immediately."

"You can always refuse," said Creighton.

That made Jon snort. "Refuse the Leech Lord? The man who flays people alive? Are you mad or just stupid?"

"Jon's right," Domeric said. "I can't refuse him. I have to go home."

* * *

Later that day, Domeric found himself in the library tower, where he often went when he needed a quiet place to relax and collect his thoughts. Ever since he was young, Domeric possessed a curious mind and a love for reading. Maester Rowan tutored him and Lord Redfort's sons in the main hall, where a warm fire burned day and night. The Redfort boys paid little attention to their studies, but Domeric listened attentively and displayed a genuine eagerness to learn.

The histories were his favorite, and Maester Rowan granted him full access to the library, even the restricted section which was hidden behind a locked door and housed ancient scrolls from the Old Days. After four years, he hadn't even made a dent in the Redfort's vast collection of knowledge, and that filled his heart with great sorrow, for he knew he would never again have access to such a place. Lord Bolton had a habit of burning books after reading them. Small wonder why the Dreadfort's library was so bare. Maester Uthor maintained a small library for his own use, but he cared more for the sciences than the histories.

Domeric trudged up the stairs to the second floor. Septon Osric cursed him when their paths crossed, but Domeric expected no less from the bitter old man. According to the septon, the little pagan from the North had no place in Redfort. He worshiped false gods, the old man had said, and he needed to first be reborn in the light of the Seven. Naturally, Domeric refused to forsake his father's gods, and so the septon damned his soul to burn in one of the seven hells. Domeric couldn't remember which exactly, not that it mattered now.

"Your prayers have finally been answered," Domeric said to the septon. "I'm leaving tomorrow and returning to my pagan lands. Never will I bother you again."

"Thank the gods," muttered Septon Osric.

_Thank them, indeed._ Domeric chuckled to himself and continued on. _I will miss even him._

Upon reaching the second floor, Domeric walked past the shelves of books and stepped onto the balcony. The warm sunlight tenderly kissed his pale face. The day was clear and bright, without a single cloud in the sky. Such days didn't exist in the Dreadfort, at least not to Domeric's knowledge. He remembered only long, cold nights and grey, cloudy skies.

Domeric sighed and leaned against the railing. In the courtyard just below, Cassandra Redfort was sitting upon a stone bench with an embroidery hoop in her hand. For a long while, Domeric watched her work her needle in and out of the fabric. He expected to find her septa guarding her as she usually did. He looked, but he couldn't find her. Respectable young ladies had no business entertaining men alone, nor were they supposed to go on unsupervised walks through the gardens or along the riverbank, and they certainly weren't supposed to go on late-night horseback rides through the valley.

Domeric swung his legs over the railing and hopped down beside the young maiden.

"Come to say goodbye, have you?" asked Cassandra in a soft voice, but she never ceased her stitching.

Domeric frowned. "So you heard."

"Of course I heard. Creighton told me hours ago. Of course, I would have liked to have heard it from you first. I suppose that was too much to ask, though."

"I didn't know how to tell you. I wanted to do it the proper way."

"_The proper way?_ What is the proper way? How many ways can a man say he's leaving? Please, I would love to hear what you've come up with."

"Cassie, I …" Domeric started, but before he could utter another word, Cassandra angrily whipped the embroidery hoop at him and stormed out of the courtyard. "Cassie! Cassie, come back!"

He followed Cassandra into the stone garden, where grey statues sprouted up from the rock like trees and bore the likeness of men, women, and small children. All the past members of House Redfort had a place in the garden. Their ashes lay in small chambers at their feet, and Septon Osric blessed them once a year. Domeric found Cassandra standing before the statue of her late mother, Lady Cassia Belmore of Strongsong. She visited the statue every day and lit a candle in her honor.

"She was a great singer, my mother," Cassandra said. "She had the most beautiful voice. When I was little, she would sing me to sleep every night … Now I hardly remember what she sounded like." When Cassandra turned around, she had tears in her eyes. Domeric tried to comfort her with a smile.

"You never used to smile," she said.

Domeric's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"When you first came here, you never smiled. Do you know that? You always seemed so sad, and your eyes were so cold, like ice. You were miserable then, but you're different now. You smile and you laugh and you play. What will happen to you if you go back? You will change, I know it."

"I won't change, I promise."

She rolled her eyes. "You've made many promises, Domeric Bolton. Or have you already forgotten?"

"No, and I intend to keep that promise."

Cassandra scoffed and gave her back to him. "Lord Bolton would never allow you to marry me, not when there are plenty of Northern girls for you to marry — girls like Sansa Stark."

"Sansa Stark? She is a child, barely ten years old."

"She won't always be a child. Already, they say she'll be the most beautiful woman in the North. It would be a smart match for any man, and Lord Bolton is no fool."

Gently, Domeric seized Cassandra's shoulders and turned her around to face him. "I don't care about Sansa Stark. I don't love Sansa Stark. I love you, and I will marry you one day."

Domeric leaned down to kiss her, but Cassandra lightly pushed him away. "No, someone might see us, and then my father will have your manhood chopped off … that is, if he doesn't just kill you."

"Nonsense, Lord Horton thinks very highly of me."

"Oh, does he?" she challenged with a playful smirk. "You know, I think you might be misinterpreting his affection for you."

"No, I don't think so. Just today, he told me I'm like a son to him, and Redfort will always be my home."

That made her smile. Cassandra gently touched her hand to his cheek and said, "Yes, it will. Always."

But now the time had come for Domeric to leave his new home and the people he loved like family. The following morning, the entire household gathered in the yard to bid him farewell. To protect his skin from the morning's chill, Lord Horton dawned a black overcoat embroidered with the Redfort's coat of arms: a red castle on a field of white, within a red embattled border. His four sons wore matching coats, while his three daughters wore light grey cloaks over their blue dresses.

"I suppose this is it, then," Domeric said to Creighton. "The next time I see you, I'll be calling you _ser._"

Creighton laughed. "And if the gods are good, I'll be calling you_ brother._" He placed a strong hand on Domeric's shoulder. "Safe journey, Domeric. Take care."

The two shared a quick embrace and then parted ways. Domeric mounted his horse and Creighton joined his brothers and sisters. Cassandra was standing beside him. Her blue eyes glistened with fresh tears, but she spoke not a word to Domeric. She held her silence even as she saw him riding away; then portcullis lowered, and he was gone.

* * *

Out of the valley Domeric climbed with two Redfort guards at his flanks. They'd been sent by Lord Horton to accompany the boy home and protect him if necessary. It was a long and tiresome journey to the Dreadfort, almost a month's ride. No doubt he would stumble across some dangerous folk along the way. Domeric had been well trained in swordplay, but his experience was limited to the sparring yard. He'd never even used his sword before. Would he be able to stand and defend himself when the time came?

On the third day, the guards came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. Domeric took this as a sign of danger and drew his sword from its scabbard.

"There's no need for that, m'lord," said the guard. "They mean us no harm."

Domeric sheathed his sword. "Who?"

The sight of them chilled Domeric right to the bone. Shrouded in grey, a small band of silent sisters were marching through the mists. Where they were heading, Domeric didn't know, but he knew death was nearby. The silent sisters were walking omens of death. They spoke not a word and kept their faces covered, all but their eyes.

"Never look 'em in the eye," warned one of the guards as the sisters passed. "Anyone who does is doomed to die."

As he said that, one of the sisters suddenly stopped in her tracks. From his horse, Domeric watched her slowly lift her gaze toward him. Two bright grey eyes glared straight into his soul and stole the breath from his lips.

"Come, m'lord," said the guard. "We must press on."

The silent sister resumed her stride, leaving Domeric gasping for air. "Y-Yes," he managed. "Yes, all right. Let's go." He gave his horse a gentle kick with his heels and trotted off.


	7. CHAPTER 7

**Chapter 7: Dwelling on the Dead**

"How many years has it been since you felt a true Northern summer, m'lord?" asked Evald as they rode through the endless wilderness of the North. "If you ask me, it still feels like winter. I haven't felt my fingers in days. My piss freezes before it touches the ground. I don't know how you lot survive out here."

The Valemen were not well equipped for a Northern summer, not in their leather doublets and jerkins, which stiffened like sheets of ice in the cold. Elmir lost two of his toes to frostbite, but, as he jokingly declared, they were always his least favorites. As for Evald, he had all his toes, but his teeth were chattering so violently he feared he might crack them.

Even Domeric, a Northerner by blood, was struggling to stay warm. "Four years it's been," he shouted over the howling wind. He tugged at the collar of the cloak Lord Horton had given him. What would Lord Bolton think when he saw his son and heir wearing another house's coat of arms? "Now more than ever I feel like a foreigner."

It had been almost eight years since he left the Dreadfort for Barrowton. Drucilla was barely five years old when he last saw her, with round, chubby cheeks and thick brown hair shaped like a helm. Deanna had said she looked like a little boy with that hair. For weeks she teased her mercilessly about it, until Drucilla gave her a good wallop in the great hall one morning. She cracked open her bottom lip and knocked out two of her front teeth. Deanna nearly choked on them when she started to scream for their mother. Lady Bolton demanded that Drucilla be punished, but her husband refused. Instead, he separated the two girls, and they never spoke again. Drucilla spent her days with Hilda, and Deanna stayed with their mother. Even back then the household thought Lord Bolton favored Drucilla over his other daughter. She had his eyes, after all. As for Deanna, she was more of a Ryswell than a Bolton.

"There it is," said Elmir as they descended upon the dark and monstrous castle known as the Dreadfort. It was a great stone fortress with thick walls and massive towers that were intimidating to friends and foes alike. Any foreigner who looked upon it was immediately overcome with an intense feeling of dread. It sat deep in the stomach and then spread through the body like a poison.

"Now I know why they call it the Dreadfort," uttered Evald. "It is ill-omened, they say, and cursed by the dead. How many men suffered behind those walls, I wonder. How many continue to suffer in secret?"

Domeric gazed woefully upon the fortress. "When I was young, I always thought those merlons looked like sharp stone teeth. They frightened me then, and they frighten me now. I had forgotten how grim this truly place is. Not even the damned would find comfort here."

"Shall we proceed?" asked Elmir.

"We must," answered Domeric. "My father is expecting me. It would be unwise to keep him waiting."

High above the battlements, the Bolton's pink-and-red banners rippled in the wind. The flayed man was welcoming Domeric home.

On they rode, passing through the first gatehouse and then crossing the stone bridge which spanned across the Weeping Water. All the servants bowed their heads and smiled as the young lord went buy. "Welcome back, m'lord!" some said. "The gods have answered our prayers and granted your safe return!" They were strangers to him, these people, and yet they all looked at him like he was some gallant hero from the songs, come to save them from the horrible monster. This carried on until he passed through the second gatehouse; then nobody cheered, and nobody smiled. The yard was as silent as a crypt. His family, along with the entire Bolton household, was waiting to greet him.

In truth, Domeric had few memories of his father. Only one stood out in his mind, and it came rushing back as soon as he looked into his pale grey eyes. Suddenly, Domeric was six years old again, hiding in the shadows of the great hall and watching the guards beat a poor serving girl until she could no longer move. He didn't remember what she had done or what she looked like. All he remembered was how his father sat there in his great chair and watched. His eyes looked the same as they did back then: cold, cold and condemning.

_Deanna had once called them ghost's eyes. She thought they could steal a man's soul with one glance. Maybe that's why she never looked at him. I wonder, did she fear my eyes as well? I'd like to think not._

Domeric swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. _So many strange faces_, he thought as he stepped forward and surveyed the crowd. _So many are foreign to me. Can they see my hands trembling? Perhaps they think it's from the cold. _

Maester Uthor was trying to smile, but the old man's jowls drooped so low they formed a permanent frown. Deanna had thought his face was melting off his bones. She'd once plastered his face with snow while he was sleeping, thinking it would save him. The old man woke up with a start, blubbering incoherently like a fool. Deanna threw a snowball at his face before running away. How difficult it was for Domeric not to laugh when he saw the wrinkly, old maester now.

"Welcome home, m'lord," Maester Uthor said, and Domeric managed a small smile in return.

His mother was standing next to the maester. Domeric almost didn't recognize her at first. Many considered Lady Bethany traditionally beautiful, with her rich brown hair and glittering green eyes. She possessed a sharp wit, an effortless charm, and a deep love of art and culture. Her father, Lord Rodrick, wanted her to wed a Southern lord and had even arranged a marriage to Arthur Ashford, son and heir of Lord Arnott, but he died in a tragic jousting accident. Lord Rodrick was in the process of finding her another suitable match when Lord Bolton made a proposal of his own, and Lord Rodrick was in no position to refuse him.

_If only she had married that Ashford boy_, Domeric thought, because the woman who stood before him now was not the woman he'd known in his youth. This woman's hair was dull and riddled with grey, and her eyes were a sickly green: without warmth, without light, without life. When she cupped his face with her frozen hands, Domeric felt like he was being seized by a corpse.

"Welcome home, my son," she said in a weak voice; then she placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "When they leave you," she whispered into his ear, "you must come to my chambers at once. We have much to discuss."

"Yes, Mother," he answered as he pulled away.

When presenting himself to Lord Bolton, Domeric assumed a more dignified stance and addressed him with great respect. "Father."

Lord Bolton stood proud and silent. Only his misty eyes moved. They studied Domeric from head to toe, peeling away his skin layer by layer and judging what remained. Never before had Domeric felt so vulnerable, so exposed, and yet he could do nothing but stand there and endure his father's emotional torture. Lord Bolton carefully examined Domeric's tall stature and muscular build; then he found the Redfort's coat of arms embroidered on his cloak. Domeric shifted uncomfortably in his stance. He should have ripped off the cloak and stomped it into the dirt.

"Drucilla," Lord Bolton said in a calm voice, "escort your brother to his bedchamber. He has been away so long, I fear he may have forgotten his way around."

"Yes, Father," answered a young lady who neither looked nor sounded like his little sister. Drucilla's short helm of hair had grown fuller and longer, now kept in a loose braid which rested against her back. The baby fat on her cheeks had melted away to reveal the high cheekbones and pointed chin of their mother. Her skin was white as milk from all the leechings, and her eyes were like moons and shimmering with curiosity. On her pink lips, which were neither thin nor full, lingered a faint smirk, like she was hiding a secret.

Lord Bolton glanced once more at his son and then took his leave. _I have disappointed him_, Domeric realized, his face awash with dismay, but he had no time to dwell on his failure as a son. Drucilla stepped forward immediately and wrapped her slender arms around his bicep.

"Welcome home, brother," she said in a bright, cheerful voice. "You must be exhausted from your long journey. I hear the roads are quite perilous as of late, with wolves and wildlings and who knows what else. I'm so glad you made it home safely."

The household dispersed from the yard and resumed their daily duties. Lady Bethany left with her handmaidens and returned to her private chambers. As Domeric watched her walk away, he remembered her request.

"Domeric," Drucilla said, recapturing his attention, "allow me to introduce our cousins, Tansy and Tally Ryswell, daughters of the late Lord Randon." At her call, the two tall blondes came forward and curtsied like perfect ladies. Drucilla rolled her eyes and led her brother away from them. "A pair of dimwits, really," she went on in a hushed voice, "but they are family. Come, let me show you to your bedchamber."

"Not yet," Domeric said as he stepped back. "First, I need to go to the crypts."

Drucilla's eyes became clouded with confusion. "Why would you want to go down there?"

"To pay my respects to Deanna."

"Oh. Yes, of course. This way, then."

Down she led him, all the way down into the dark and damp crypts that lay beneath the Dreadfort, where all the great and terrible rulers of the past had been laid to rest. Domeric carried a torch to light their way, and Drucilla stayed close by his side.

"The crypts are no place for the living," she said as she swept away the overhanging cobwebs with her hand. "This is where the dead sleep, and they do not like to be disturbed. That's what Father always says. As for Mother, you'd think she was dead already, considering how much time she spends down here. Every day she visits. If you ask me, she prefers their company over ours."

"She seems ill."

"She might be." A fat black rat scurried past her feet. "Ill in the head, that is."

"Perhaps she's still grieving, or maybe she's lonely. Can you really blame her? This is such a dreary place. Anyone could go mad here."

Drucilla scowled. "Dreary to some, yes, but I find it quite pleasant."

Together, the two made their way toward Deanna Bolton's tiny stone tomb, barely four feet in length and decorated with wildflowers. She was resting in the company of all her brothers and sisters, most of whom had died without names of their own. Domeric lit a candle in her honor and bowed his head in reverence.

"Her face is fading from my memory," he confessed. "I barely recall what she looked like. All I remember is that she had Mother's eyes."

Drucilla looked toward the entrance. "We should not linger here. The dead grow restless."

"Do you not think of her?" Domeric asked. "Ever?"

"Why would I think of her?" she asked. "It's been six years."

"She was our sister. Surely that means something to you."

Drucilla shrugged. "Father says we shouldn't dwell on the dead. Mourning them only draws you closer to death. Perhaps that is why Mother is so terribly sick. She clings to death and refuses to let go. Soon, it will take her."

She leaned forward and blew out Deanna's flickering flame with a single puff of breath.


	8. CHAPTER 8

**Chapter 8: Family Secrets**

Alone in his bedchamber, Domeric stood before the open window, hoping to take some fresh air, but he found only smoke; thick stacks of it wafted up from the red hot flames of the blacksmith's forge and smothered the stale air with a soft grey haze. Ominous it was, and it burned Domeric's throat and made his eyes water like ice melting in the spring.

_The Dreadfort has declared me a foe_, he thought as he wiped the tears from his eyes. _Now it__'s trying to poison me. _He coughed a deep, chest-rattling cough and tasted a sourness on his tongue.

"Such a queer place, the Dreadfort," rasped Maester Uthor as he entered the room with slow, laborious steps. "Even the air is foul and reeks of death and despair, but one gets used to it, I suppose." His jowls jiggled and his chain jangled as he shuffled along. It was a heavy thing, his collar, and seemed clunky on his heaving chest. Small wonder why he'd developed such an ugly hunch.

In his twenty years of study at the Citadel, he'd forged over thirty links derived from nine unique metals: gold, silver, black iron, copper, lead, pale steel, brass, bronze, and pewter. When he was young, Domeric had asked what each of the links represented, but the old maester's answers had long since escaped his memory. Now, only two were familiar to him: the silver link for medicine and healing and the lead link for poison (both of which seemed to greatly outnumber all others). Maester Uthor was very passionate about his leeches, believed they could cure any ailment, but according to Maester Rowan in Redfort, leeching was an age-old practice that had fallen out of favor with most maesters.

"Here." Maester Uthor handed Domeric a small vial of brown liquid. "For your cough. It tastes horrid going down, I must warn you, but it will sooth that burning sensation in your throat. I struggled with it for some time — years, actually — until I developed a proper cure. I thought my lungs would turn black as coal from all the smoke, and ash would spew from my lips when I coughed." He chuckled quietly to himself. "I only jest, my lord. Drink up now, unless you want to suffer."

At the maester's request, Domeric emptied the vial into his mouth and swallowed the bitter liquid in one gulp. His face contorted with disgust. "Oh, that is foul. What is in that?"

"There is bliss in ignorance, my lord. Believe me."

Domeric smirked. "Those should be the Bolton words, I think. There are so many dark secrets here … I say you're better off not knowing." From his window, Domeric had a clear view of the Torturer's Tower, and he remembered the voices he'd heard in the night when all else was still. "When we were young, Drucilla would sometimes come into my room at night. The voices were keeping her awake, she said. Deanna, she could sleep through the loudest storm, but not Drucilla. No, even a whisper could wake her. We would stay up all night, the two of us, listening to the moans and the screams. We thought they were ghosts." He shook his head. "The truth is worse, I suppose. It usually is."

"Ruling comes with many responsibilities, my lord, and not all of them are pleasant. Your father does what he must so that our lands remain safe, so that you remain safe."

"Yes, I know, but I also know that he enjoys it more than any man should." He tore his eyes away from the window and glared suspiciously at the old man. "Why are you really here, Maester Uthor? You did not come all this way just to cure my aching throat. Who sent you?"

"Your mother, my lord. She has invited you to sup with her, privately."

_Supping privately with my mother? She has more than food on her mind, that I know. It__'s a talk she wants. A long, long talk. _Still, Domeric nodded. "Very well, then. If you would be so kind as to lead the way. It seems I have forgotten my way around my own home." He wondered if the old maester could hear the hint of sarcasm in his voice, and the anger which boiled beneath.

Regardless, the old man brought Domeric to Lady Bolton's chambers, where his mother was sitting alone at the table, a cup of wine in her hand. The warm candlelight shimmered across her face and filled her green eyes with a soft golden glow.

"My son." Lady Bolton went to stand, but Domeric politely asked her to remain sitting. It was, after all, discourteous to make a lady stand. Instead, he greeted his mother with a kiss on the cheek and then sat down across from her. Lady Bolton made a gesture with her hand, and two serving girls rushed out to fetch the first course while a third stepped forward with a flagon of wine and poured Domeric a cup.

"Will Drucilla not be joining us?" Domeric asked when he realized that only two places had been set.

His question brought a bitter smile to his mother's face. "I'm afraid not. Drucilla prefers to sup alone, you see, unless of course your father invites her to dine with him. She greatly prefers his company over mine. She always has, ever since she was a little girl. She loves him with all her heart and hates me with equal passion. I can see it in her eyes, those horrible grey eyes …" She took another swig of wine and swallowed it down. "Now, if you can believe it, he sometimes invites her to sit on his council while he holds court."

"Does he?" He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. "My, what an honor. Drucilla must feel very proud."

"I assure you, she does. The Little Lady of the Dreadfort, the servants call her, but never to her face. As for me, I think she would gladly take my place if she could. Sometimes I can feel her watching me, watching and waiting for me to die."

As she went on, Domeric drowned out her voice with as much wine as he could stomach.

The two dined on warm rabbit stew, a salad of green beans, onions, and beets, and — as a special treat for Domeric — blackberry tarts dusted with sugar.

"They were always your favorite," his mother said with a smile as she watched him eat his sweet treat. "Do you remember? You would always sneak into the kitchens and nibble on cakes and tarts until your supper was utterly spoiled. Both you and Deanna loved them so much." Her smile wilted, but only for a moment. "Drucilla isn't fond of sweet things. Such a strange child."

He too had lost his taste for sweet things, but Domeric didn't have the heart to tell his mother, not while she seemed so happy. "You know, I would have liked to have gone to Deanna's funeral," he said. "She was my sister, after all. I had a right to go."

Lady Bolton lowered her gaze to the table, as if to hide her face in shame. "Yes, I know."

"But you forbade it. I still remember when you sent that letter. I must have read it a hundred times."

"I couldn't let you. You had to stay far away from here. If you had come home then, your father would have never let you leave. It was the only way to guarantee your safety."

"Well, I'm home now."

"Yes, you are home now, and I am very glad to finally have my son back." She reached across the small table and gave his hand a loving squeeze. "But enough sad talk for now. Please, tell me about Redfort. Did you enjoy your time there?"

"More than I can say. The Redforts were like a second family to me. Lord Horton was the father I never had, and his sons were the brothers _you_ never gave me. I was happy there, Mother, truly happy." He wrenched his hand out of her grasp and ignored the pained expression which overtook her face. His words had hurt her deeply, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. His pride wouldn't allow it. "And I fell in love, if you care to know, with his daughter Cassandra. I intend to marry her one day."

"Oh?" Lady Bolton withdrew into herself and folded her hands upon her lap. "And have you spoken with your father about this intent?"

"I plan to immediately. Why?"

He watched his mother reach for her wine cup, and he saw the panic in her eyes when she realized that both her cup and the flagon were completely dry. More wine, she demanded from the servants, and then Domeric made a demand of his own.

"Tell me what you know, Mother. I know you are hiding something."

Before he could get an answer, the door opened and a young male servant entered the room.

"My lord," he announced as he twiddled his thumbs behind his back, "Lord Bolton sends for you. Please, come with me, and I will take you to him."

Domeric held back a snarl. _He beckons me like a dog! _"My father will have to wait. As you can see, I am talking with my mother."

The boy's eyes widened at the thought of returning to his lord with such a rude message. "But, my lord—"

"I will go when I am finished. Thank you."

Lady Bolton shook her head in disapproval. "Domeric, you should go to your father. We have the rest of our lives to talk. Your father is not so patient." She gave a reassuring smile. "Go on, dear. Don't worry about me."

"As you wish." Reluctantly, Domeric arose from his chair and kissed his mother good night before taking his leave. He followed the servant to Lord Bolton's private chambers and entered only after he'd been properly announced and accepted.

He found his lord father sitting upon a wooden chair facing the crackling fire. His eyes were closed and his head was titled back, as if enjoying a peaceful rest. When Domeric stepped closer, however, he noticed that his sleeves had been drawn up to his elbows, and suckling upon his bare skin were four black, wriggling leeches: two on each forearm, slowly sucking drop after drop until they were full and fat. The sight of them made Domeric shudder.

"Those leeches you love," he boldly stated, "I do not think they help as much as you think they do."

"Leeches are good for many things," Lord Bolton answered with his eyes still closed. "Most diseases are caused by overabundances in the blood. Leeches, they suck away all the bad blood and bring balance to the body. When one's blood is in perfect balance, a man can do anything."

"Are those Maester Uthor's words?"

"No." Lord Bolton opened his pale grey eyes. "They are mine."

One by one each of the plump leeches fell off, leaving four small, bleeding marks on the lord's arms. The attending servant quickly gathered all the leeches in a shallow bowl of water and then bandaged the wounds before leaving.

Lord Bolton stood up from the chair and fetched a cup of his preferred drink: hippocras, a spiced medicinal wine. It was all he ever drank. Other lords were drunks and fools, but not Roose Bolton. No, he was a man who maintained complete control, over everything and everyone. Years from now, when staring death in the face, he would likely choose to take his own life rather than have it stolen by another man.

Domeric's impatience got the better of him. "Why did you ask me here?" he asked.

"I wanted to speak with my son, who has finally returned home after eight long years. Lord Horton has groomed you well, I see, and for that I must send him my thanks. But I wonder, are you still a Bolton beneath those Redfort clothes? If not, I might as well send you back to him." He paused for Domeric's answer, but it seemed to have gotten stuck in the boy's throat. "I hear you like to play the high harp and dance at feasts. I hear you have a natural talent for the joust and the makings of a champion rider. Is that what you wish to do with your life? Prance around on a horse and play the harp? If so, please return to Redfort at once because I have no use for such a man."

His father's words pierced like a knife in his side. "No," Domeric answered immediately. "No, my place is here. I am your son and heir."

Lord Bolton nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "Yes, you are. And as my son and heir, your first responsibility is finding a suitable bride. That much I have already done for you." He walked over to his desk and began shuffling through a small pile of scrolls. Urgent messages from other Northern houses. Important today, but by tomorrow, they would be nothing more than ash on the bottom of his hearth. "While you were away, I made a proposal on your behalf … to Ned Stark." He found the desired scroll and handed it to Domeric. "I received his response a month ago. You are to wed his eldest daughter, Sansa, when she comes of age."

Domeric unrolled the scroll and carefully read every letter of Lord Stark's answer; then he went back and read them a second time, just in case his eyes had deceived him. They hadn't. He crushed the scroll in his fist. "You made a proposal without telling me?"

"The Starks are the most powerful house in the North. The alliance between our houses is centuries old, yes, but not set in stone. It was forged from a promise, and promises are easily broken. The best way to preserve that alliance and ensure House Bolton's continuing prosperity is to join our houses in marriage and bind them with blood. That is how we survive."

"Yes, I know, but—" Domeric bit back his words and hung his head in defeat. "As you say, Father. I will marry the Stark girl." _What choice do I have anyway? In the end, Roose Bolton always gets his way. Always._

Without his father's consent, Domeric chucked the scroll into the fire and then stormed out of the room.

_So this is why he called me home! He wanted me to return just so he could marry me off. And to Sansa Stark, of all people, when I had already promised my heart to another! _His eyes widened. _Did he know? Is that why he …? No, he couldn't have known. I told only Creighton of my plans, and he said nothing to anyone,… but what if he had eyes in the Vale? Spies … Spies, yes, of course. He has been watching me this whole time._

Domeric entered his bedchamber and slammed the door shut. _What do I tell Cassandra? How do I tell her that I must break my promise after I swore I wouldn__'t? A mere letter would be cruel and disgraceful to her. The truth has to come from me, from my own lips, and it will surely break her heart._

* * *

That night, Domeric lay upon a soft feather bed with three layers of blankets to keep him warm in the cold Northern night. He'd asked the servants for more candles so that he might read before bed. A daunting task in the Dreadfort. For books, he had found only one sitting on a dusty shelf in Maester Uthor's chambers, and Domeric had already read it half a dozen times in his youth. It was a book about the Red Kings, the founders of House Bolton, and their bitter rivalry with the Kings of Winter, the Starks of Winterfell. Especially now, with his impending marriage to Sansa Stark, it seemed distasteful to be reading such a book, but his options were too few for him to cast it aside. He needed a good read to distract him from his thoughts. This one would just have to do.

Beneath the soft glow of candlelight, Domeric flipped through page after page until his eyelids grew heavy. The castle was quiet at this hour, but pleasantly so. Outside, the wind whistled through the wooden shutters and the wolves howled beneath the full moon, singing the sweet songs of the night. At times like this, Domeric thought, the Dreadfort wasn't so terrible.

Sometime later, the door opened and Drucilla Bolton, dressed in a white linen gown, poked her head into the dimly lit room. Her brown hair was unbound and flowing over her shoulders in loose waves. Her eyes were clear and bright and without fatigue despite the late hour. When she spotted the book in her brother's hands, she couldn't help but say, "You should burn that after you read it."

Domeric flipped the page. "Well some people like to read a book more than once."

His answer made her nose wrinkle. "Why? Did they not read it carefully enough the first time?" Without invitation, she strolled into the room and sat down on the edge of his bed. "You know, Father always burns his books after reading them. That way, nobody can use the information against him. Isn't he brilliant?"

_Brilliant and a tad paranoid_, he thought as he closed the book and set it down beside him. "Why are you still awake, Drucilla?"

"Hmm, I couldn't sleep." She combed her fingers through her hair while she gazed aimlessly around the room, as if searching for a distraction from her thoughts. "I had a terrible dream, but strangely enough now I can hardly remember it. Don't you just hate it when that happens? What good are dreams if you can't remember them when you wake?" As she spoke, her right hand was twisting and tugging the left sleeve of her gown, exposing a set of scars which marked the inside of her arm, from elbow to wrist.

_Where did those come from? _"Drucilla, did someone hurt you?" Concerned, Domeric reached a gentle hand toward his sister, but she recoiled from him before his fingers could graze her scarred skin, and then she yanked her sleeve back down to hide the evidence.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "He's dead now. Father had him hanged years ago." She would have liked to have seen his execution herself, but her father said she was too young to witness such things. Still, she hoped he had suffered greatly before dying. Perhaps now his skin was hanging on a wall somewhere. Drucilla smiled at the thought. "Domeric, do you remember those nights when I would sneak into your room? And we would sit in bed and listen to the ghosts moan and wail?"

Domeric nodded. For him, it was a horrible childhood memory, so he couldn't understand why it would make Drucilla smile so brightly. While he sat in silence, she stood up and walked over to the window. Outside, the full moon was dangling above the sharp merlons of the Torturer's Tower. Any closer, she thought, and it might just crack in two.

"They weren't ghosts, were they?" she said. "They were real people, trapped and suffering in the tower."

"Yes."

"I still hear them, you know, and I dream about them … and that room."

"That room doesn't exist, Drucilla."

Drucilla whipped around to face him. "Yes, it does."

"No, it doesn't!" Domeric sat up with a fury and threw aside his blankets. "The Boltons never flayed their enemies alive and wore their skins as cloaks. There is no room full of skins. It's just some story used to intimidate people. They're all lies!"

"They're not lies!" Drucilla hissed. "They really happened, and I can prove it! I can take you to the dungeon tower and show you where they flay men alive. I can show you where men scream forever in the darkness. Then you'll see. Then you'll know the truth, and you'll believe."

Domeric rolled his eyes. "And how would we get into the tower? We'd have to steal the keys from Big Balder, Balder the Boulder, Balder the Brute, Balder the—" He struggled to remember his other nicknames, of which there were many. He and Deanna had once spent an entire afternoon coming up with fitting nicknames for the bald-headed, boil-faced monster known as Balder. "Big Balder can crush a man's skull with his bare hands. How would you propose we get past him? Hmm?"

Drucilla shrugged. "Well, we wouldn't have to do all that because I already stole the keys from him years ago."

"You stole the keys from Balder the Brute?"

"Balder the Bum is more accurate, I've found. He is not nearly as intimidating as the stories make him out to be. In fact, he hums in his sleep. A lovely tune, too." She giggled and twirled and danced across the room with light, springy steps. "Shall we go now, then? Or have you changed your mind already?"

She was challenging his manhood, that clever girl. Their father had taught her well. "No," Domeric answered with a confident smirk. "We will go now, and I will prove you wrong once and for all."

Domeric grabbed his bedrobe while Drucilla snatched the keys, and under the cover of darkness, the siblings crept past the household guards and snuck out of the great keep. The night's chill stung their rosy cheeks and numbed their hands, but the excitement of their defiant and dangerous expedition lit a fire deep in their bellies. They dashed and darted through the middle bailey, past the barking dogs in their kennels, past the armory and the barracks (at which they were nearly spotted by Marvin the Maneater, who was stumbling around drunk), and hurried toward the unmanned gate of the Torturer's Tower. Domeric stood watch while Drucilla fumbled around with the giant ring of keys. In a matter of seconds, the gate was unlocked and wide open, as was Domeric's mouth.

"I see you've done this before," he whispered to his sister.

She smiled. "Once or twice. Let's go."

The passage was narrow and lit by rows of torches that burned bright and gave birth to strange shadows which seemed to peel off the walls and follow Domeric as he walked. One, he swore, had the angry face of a man. Domeric feared he might creep up behind him and stab him in the back with a sharp shadow dagger. He chuckled at his own childishness. Shadow men wielding shadow blades? Such things only existed in Hilda's stories.

They followed the mysterious passage into a huge chamber with gates on each side. Some were locked and blocked by heavy iron portcullises, while others were wide open and daring them to enter.

"Where's Big Balder?" Domeric asked as he searched high and low for the gaoler, who was said to stomp around the tower like a menacing giant. He listened for the jingling of his keys, but he heard only the quiet moans and groans of the prisoners as they starved and suffered in their cells. From the central chamber, he could look up and see the levels above him, but he couldn't tell how high they went. After the fourth level, the darkness consumed everything.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Drucilla said as she admired the architecture. "The cells, they get smaller and smaller the higher you go. Those on the highest level are little bigger than coffins and contain no windows at all. There's no light. No space to move. No air to breathe. Locked in there, a man quickly slips into madness. He thinks he's been buried alive. Those prisoners usually last no longer than a week. I've counted." She grinned. "Do you want to see them? The prisoners, I mean. Come, I'll take you to one of the cells."

Before he could refuse her, Drucilla grabbed his hand and dragged him up the winding stairs of the north-eastern passage to the second level, which contained three spacious cells, where scraggly men in tattered rags sat upon filthy, straw-covered floors that reeked of shit and piss. Domeric covered his nose with his hand and backed away, but Drucilla approached the nearest cell and peered through the gate.

"Drucilla," Domeric spoke through the webs of his fingers, "how often do you come here?"

She shrugged. "Whenever I'm lonely, or I can't sleep."

_So she seeks the company of prisoners? Doesn__'t she find that odd? When I left, Drucilla was still playing with dolls and hiding under Hilda's skirt. What had happened to her while I was away? _As he pondered this, he casually observed the prisoners in the cell, and he immediately noticed something strange. They all sat huddled together and far away from the gate, as if they were spooked by something … or someone. Balder the Boulder perhaps; he was an intimidating beast of a man, after all.

Drucilla stepped away from the gate and smirked. "Are you ready to face the truth now, brother? The torture chambers lie below."

He nodded. "Lead the way, sister."

They took the stairs back down to the main chamber and then passed through the northern gate and descended into the dark chambers below. Down there, the air was musty and thin. After just a few steps, Domeric felt like he was slowly suffocating. His feet wobbled. His head started spinning. Before taking the long plunge, he reached out with both hands and braced himself against the walls. "Skulls!" he shrieked. "The walls are made of human skulls!"

Drucilla dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. "Yes, skulls and other bones as well. You really have been away too long. You sound like a foreigner."

"I am a Bolton, the same as you."

"Then prove it," she shot back.

_Why should I have to prove myself? _Domeric angrily thought. _Do we not share the same name? The same eyes? The same blood? _From the moment he passed through the castle gates, Domeric felt like he'd been put on trial. Everybody was picking him apart and questioning his loyalty, as if he had abandoned his family, as if he had _chosen_ to leave the Dreadfort! He had no choice at all. His mother made the choice for him when she left him in Barrowton. _What must I do to prove my loyalty? Flay a man alive? If so, bring me the knife now!_

But there were no flayed men down here, that much Domeric knew, and Drucilla was unable to prove him wrong. She had brought him to a dark, empty chamber which housed a tall wooden rack in the shape of a diagonal cross, but there was no evidence to show that a man had ever been strapped to it, skinless or not.

Domeric yawned. The hour was late, and he was exhausted from his long journey. "This is futile, Drucilla. There is nothing down here."

His sister wore her frustration on her face. "There are more chambers to see. We just—"

She took off once more, but this time Domeric grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. "Drucilla, how many times have you been down here? Several times, right? And during those many visits had you ever seen them flay anyone? Anyone at all? Tell me, have you found the chamber of skins? Have you? — No, you haven't, and do you know why? Because there is no chamber."

But there was a steady _clink, clink, clink _of keys smacking into each other. Big Balder had awoken from his slumber and started making the rounds. _STOMP clink STOMP clink. _The ceiling shook and coughed up dust. _STOMP clink STOMP clink. _The iron gate opened with a deafening screech.

"He's coming down here," Domeric realized, and so he pulled his sister into the nearest chamber and hid in the darkness.

A giant shadow moved across the floor. _STOMP clink STOMP clink. _Big Balder marched down the passage, whistling a light, cheerful tune. _STOMP clink STOMP clink. _His long, powerful arms swung back and forth like heavy hammers. _STOMP clink STOMP clink … __STOMP clink STOMP clink … _Then he was gone, and Domeric heard not a sound.

He let out a sigh of relief. "Thank the gods."

"I saw a light," Drucilla muttered as she wiggled out of his grasp and climbed to her feet. "Before you grabbed me, I saw a light in one of the chambers. There's someone down there!" She took off running before he could stop her, so he had no choice but to follow, as tired as he was.

Domeric lazily approached the chamber his sister had entered. "Drucilla, there is nothing down here, just—" He went to turn and nearly smacked into his sister's back. She was standing at the entrance, standing and staring into the chamber with a haunted expression on her pale, pale face. Three times Domeric called her name, but she would not respond. Finally, he placed a hand on her trembling shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. "Drucilla? Drucilla, what's …?"

She lifted her right arm and pointed a quivering finger toward the wooden rack.

What Domeric saw that night would haunt him forever. A man was strapped to the rack, bound by his wrists and ankles with tough strips of leather. At one point, he might have been struggling and screaming for mercy, but now he just hung lifelessly on the cross. Without skin, he hung. The Butcher had flayed him with his sharp knife, slowly peeled away the layers of his flesh until there was nothing left but blood, bone, and muscle tissue. Pink and red. The flayed man. Their house's sigil was standing right in front of them.

And now Drucilla was smiling at him. "Now do you believe?"


	9. CHAPTER 9

**Chapter 9: The Bastard of the Dreadfort**

The stench of Reek could make a summer flower wilt.

It had always been that way, ever since the day he was born. When Reek was pulled from his mother's womb, the midwife thought the woman had birthed a corpse. She almost fainted from the sight of him, all sallow and sickly looking. "But it lives!" she shrieked as the babe squirmed in her arms. "By gods, it lives! What is this grotesque creature?" Not a babe, she thought, but a monster.

Maester Uthor declared a sickness was to blame for his condition, but of the blood or the body he couldn't say, and so he offered no cure. Others had their own explanation. They believed he'd been cursed by the gods. The gods had made him stink, they said, so that men would know his soul was rotting.

Reek didn't know much about the gods or his soul, whether it was rotting or not. All he knew was that the smell of him repulsed everyone, even the horses. For that, he was forced to sleep in the pig pens, with the shit and the mud. During his youth, the children often chased him around the yard and clobbered him with stones. "Reek, Reek," they would chant while he bled and begged for mercy. "You reek, Reek!"

And so that became his name.

Naked and shivering, Reek squatted in the middle of the rushing stream and tried to wash himself clean for his master's special day. His knobby knees wobbled as he bent over and scooped water into his cupped hands. One stumble or slip and he would crack his head open on the sharp rocks below. Reek struggled to keep his balance, but he never fell. Around him the water whirled and rippled, clear and blue as he'd ever seen, and toe-numbingly cold. It burned when it touched his skin, but still he splashed it on his face and poured it over his body, scrubbing until his flesh was raw and red. Then he grabbed a fistful of sweet grass and rubbed it all over in hopes that the perfumed oils would soak into his skin.

He stopped and took a quick whiff of himself. The sweet scent lingered for only a moment; then he smelled only Reek. He growled with frustration. "No good!" he cursed. "Still no good!" And he ripped the grass to shreds.

His soiled, smelly rags were hanging from a nearby tree branch, stained brown and swarming with flies. Reek glared at the buzzing pests. "Won't do. Won't do at all." His clothes, they too would need a good scrubbing if he wanted to look presentable for his master's special day. Reek took them, drowned them in the river, and then beat them dry on the rocks.

The damp cloth clung to his skin as he limped through the quiet forest. The flies followed, hovering overhead like a dark storm cloud. Reek shooed them away with both hands, but they always came back.

"A special gift," he muttered to himself. "A special gift for the master's special day." Today was Ramsay's name day. He was sixteen now, a man by law, and so he would need a man's gift. But what? Reek thought long and hard and swatted the flies when they flew too close.

The idea came to him just as a little biter landed on the tip of his long, humped nose. "A hunt!" he exclaimed, frightening the insect away. "The master will want a hunt to celebrate his special day! Oh, the cleverness of me!" He grabbed his stomach and bellowed with laughter. "I'll give 'im the best hunt he's ever had — and not one of deer or wolf or boar. The master's sick of hunting those. Not a challenge, he says. Not a thrill. It's a maiden he wants, a fair maiden with dark hair and pale eyes,_ dark hair and pale eyes_, dark as the night and pale as the moon." Reek spun and ran off to find the perfect present.

While combing through dense forests and climbing over rocky hills, Reek realized that finding such a maiden was no easy task. There was a severe shortage of beauties in the region. It was a hard and unforgiving land worked by a silent and sturdy people, true of men and women alike. Along the banks of the Weeping Water lived fishermen's daughters and river wenches who stank of fish and were missing most of their teeth. Beyond the Dreadwoods lay a number of farmhouses full of suitable young maidens, shy and unassuming, with rosy cheeks and calloused hands, but Reek was still hobbled after the pig farmer skewered him with his pitchfork when he caught him sleeping in the barn. He wouldn't have the speed to survive another chase if one sprang up on him, and farm girls were hardly worth the effort. The master had had his fill of farm girls. They were faster than most, but they always hid in the most obvious of places, and they were easily fooled by sweet words. Today was his special day. He needed a special hunt. And Reek would find him a worthy prey.

He discovered her in the middle of an apple orchard on the edge of the northern wood. From there, Reek could see the western bank of the Weeping Water, its dark waters spotted with fishing boats and river rafts. Reek hid himself among the trees and silently stalked the maiden. A common servant she was, and commonly beautiful, with hair the color of wheat, long and blowing freely in the breeze. Reek could not clearly see her face, but from a far-eye's glance she appeared handsome enough for the master.

Humming quietly to herself, she walked down the grove with a wicker basket gently swinging from her arm. The bittersweet fruits were now ripe for picking and ready to be baked with cinnamon or stewed with prunes. She went from tree to tree, picking up fallen apples and looking them over before finally placing them in her basket. Around her, men on ladders were plucking fruit off the branches. Reek was careful to avoid them as he followed her through the grove.

Gradually, the girl strayed further away from the group, far from sight, far from ear's reach. Nobody even noticed that she'd wandered off. That was when Reek made his move, while she was bent over and collecting apples from the ground. He stepped out from behind the tree and slowly crept toward her, keeping his head low and his feet quiet. She was still humming and picking, completely unaware.

Closer and closer he stepped. His wet tongue slithered across his lips with anticipation. He wondered what her yellow hair felt like, if it was as soft as it looked, so he stepped closer and closer and …

The girl stood and sniffed the air. "What is that awful smell?" she wondered as she glanced over her shoulder.

Reek froze in mid-stride. It was too late. He'd been found out. The young maiden turned and was staring at him now with a horrified expression, the same expression he'd seen on so many faces before her.

She took a swift step back and held the wicker basket like a shield. "What is it you want?" she asked, looking him up and down. "Are you hurt?"

But from her lips, Reek heard only the midwife's screeching voice: _What is this grotesque creature? _And the children were chanting, _Reek! Reek! You reek, Reek! You__'re a freak, Reek! _

He clutched his head with both hands and cried over the noise, "STOP IT! STOP SAYING THAT! _I__'M NOT A FREAK!_"

The wicker basket crashed to the ground and a dozen red apples rolled across the green grass. Reek was on top of the girl, his hands clutched tightly around her throat, crushing with a giant's strength. "I'm not a freak!" he yelled. "I'm not a freak!" He squeezed and squeezed while the maiden's fists pounded against his stiff arms. Trapped beneath him, her legs were kicking and her feet were scraping. "_I__'m not a freak!_" Harder he pressed until he heard a deep groan escape her lips; then she was still, and the voices were silent at last.

Reek loomed over the woman's lifeless body. Even in death, she remained handsome. Her yellow hair was sprawled out around her pale face and glistening like threads of gold silk in the sunlight. He'd never seen such pretty hair on a woman, but when he touched it, he frowned. It felt not like silk but straw: dry and coarse against his skin. Reek moved to her face, touching her cheek and tracing over her lips with his fingers. The warmth was quickly escaping her body. Reek had spoiled her for his master, that much was certain, but she was fresh enough for him. After all, he'd always preferred a quiet woman.

He finished quickly and dragged her body into the surrounding forest, where he would leave her for the wolves and the crows. Afterward, Reek hurried back to the miller's cottage, which sat along the southern bend of the Weeping Water. There, his master was waiting for him to return with his gift. How would he react when Reek came back empty-handed? Reek trembled at the thought. _  
_

_Oh, he__'ll be angry with me, _he thought, _and he'll punish me! The master hates to be disappointed! _His body still ached from his last punishment, when he dared to say that word which his master loathed, that word which reminded him what he was, truly …

"A bastard!" Reek flinched and threw his hands over his head, expecting a swift and savage beating, but nothing happened. He was alone and free to speak the truth. His lips twisted into a crooked, yellow grin, and he shouted, "A bastard of the Dreadfort! A bastard of the Dreadfort!" His loud cackles echoed through the forest and sent the birds flapping away in a panic.

* * *

Astride a mare she'd named Beauty, Drucilla Bolton watched the black birds scatter into the grey sky. The horse gave a snort and turned sharply to the right, but Drucilla was quick to calm her and regain control.

Beauty was more docile than her last horse; that one was hot-blooded and wild and had thrown her off its back on more than one occasion. The horsemaster couldn't explain why. "I assure you she's well-trained, m'lord," he'd said to his lordship. "Never so much as nipped a man before now. Horses can be awfully particular about their riders, though. Some they like, while others …" He shrugged. "But I'll find her a better horse, m'lord, a gentle horse suitable for the young lady."

As promised, he'd found such a horse, a true beauty who obeyed Drucilla's every command, but that hadn't stopped the whispers in the stables. "There's a reason that horse didn't take to her," the stableboys would say when they thought they were alone. "I think it sensed something it didn't like. Bad blood."

The following day, the guards discovered a number of Lady Bolton's jewels hidden where one of the stableboys slept. The boy lost his right hand and, from then on, chose his words more carefully.

Drucilla looked down the riverbank. There stood her older brother, lost in thought as he silently stared into the deep, deep waters where his younger sister had drowned six years ago. He heard her crying out to him. He saw her tiny fingers slipping beneath the surface, but he could do nothing to save her. He hadn't been there to protect her.

Drucilla rode to her brother's side. A cold wind blew and loosened her tight knot of hair; the free strands swept across her face as she glared ahead.

"We should at least talk about it," she said, thinking he was still bothered by what they had seen in the Torturer's Tower. It had been well over a fortnight since the incident, but still Domeric wandered around the castle with a haunted look in his eyes. He ate but a few bites of food a day and scarcely slept at night. As he stood before her now, Domeric seemed a skeleton himself, with his deep, sunken eyes and pallid skin. Drucilla thought it quite pathetic, the way he was acting, pathetic and dishonorable to their great house. A true Bolton would never flinch at the sight of the flayed man.

Domeric wished she hadn't brought it up at all. "I cannot close my eyes without seeing that man's face: without skin, covered in blood, smiling at me with those teeth and staring at me with those piercing blue eyes." He squeezed his own eyes shut as the memories came flooding back to him. "Gods, why did you have to take off that sack, Drucilla? _Why?_"

While he stood in the chamber, trembling in fear, his sister had approached the flayed man and ripped the brown sack off his head to expose what little remained of his face; and when she did, the flayed man came alive and started thrashing about and screaming.

"He had no face," Domeric murmured, "and still he was screaming. He had no face."

"The flayed man is the sigil of our house," Drucilla said with a faint smile. "Clearly, the gods wanted us to find him."

Her words made Domeric ill. "How can you be so proud of this?"

"Why shouldn't I be proud?" she answered. The wind caught her hair and sent it spiraling around her face. "This is our family's legacy. Remember our words, Domeric. _Our blades are sharp. _With those blades, we are prepared to do what must be done, what other houses are too afraid to do, for the sake of the realm and our great family. You seem to have forgotten that."

He shook his head. "Drucilla, you defend what you do not understand." Although she thought herself mature, she was but a child of twelve and a victim of her own naivety. Their father had done her no service by keeping her trapped in the Dreadfort for so long. In the Vale, Drucilla would have blossomed into a fine young lady, learning the latest dances and reciting poetry with Cassandra and her sisters, but instead she remained in the darkness of the Dreadfort. The leeches had drained her dry while their father filled her head with lies. Now Domeric feared she was too far gone to be saved.

Drucilla rolled her eyes. "Oh, I am not so blind, Domeric. I know more than you think. You think Father is some monster who tortures people for his own pleasure, but you're wrong. He has a reason for everything, our father, a perfectly good and rational reason. That man we found was a wildling, you know, one of many who have recently fled into the North. Father wanted to know why, but the stubborn man refused to tell him, so Father had him flayed alive, slowly, until he at last spoke the truth."

That truth, however, she refused to share with her brother. He never believed in the Others when Hilda spoke of them, and so he wouldn't believe her now if she claimed they were returning and bringing the Long Night with them. Domeric loved the histories, but the Others he considered pure fantasy.

Even now, Domeric wasn't listening to her.

"You told Father?" he interrupted, with anger in his voice. "You went to him and you told him everything? We swore that we would keep it a secret. You promised!"

Drucilla raised her chin. "You swore, Domeric. I made no such promise. And yes, I did tell Father because there are no secrets between us. You may doubt him, but I trust him completely. Everything he does, he does for us."

"Drucilla, you are a fool if you think Father actually cares about us. He doesn't care about anyone." Saying the truth aloud filled his heart with despair, but it filled his sister with rage. For a moment, he thought she might strike him.

"If you were not my brother," Drucilla threatened in their father's whisper-soft voice, "I would rip out your tongue and feed it to the crows."

Domeric didn't doubt his sister's words. Her passion for justice was the talk of many in the Dreadfort, as was her blind devotion to their lord father.

"You have no right to speak of him like that," she went on, "not when you barely know him. You haven't been here, Domeric. And now you would condemn us and think us inferior to your righteous Redforts? But you aren't a Redfort. You're a Bolton. You were born a Bolton and you will die a Bolton. And as a Bolton, you must place family before all else. You'd best remember that if you ever hope to succeed Father." She gave the reins a sharp tug, turned, and rode back to the Dreadfort.

* * *

Reek had been watching the two siblings from the safety of the trees. When Drucilla came galloping by on her black mare, he ran and hid in the bushes like a frightened animal.

Although her lord father had passed the sentence, Reek knew all the lashings and beatings he'd received were by her command. She was the one whispering in her father's ear, and he liked to please her.

"She's his favorite," he murmured as he picked at the fresh scabs on his face. He sucked his fingers into his mouth and tasted blood. "She's always been his favorite … because she's just like him. And they've always spat on me! _Go away, Reek! Go back to the pig pens where you belong! _They threw me out like I was nothing!" He turned and fled with a hobbling gait. "But soon, soon they'll be nothing! Soon, I'll make them nothing!"

He hurried back to the miller's cottage, where his master was target shooting with the bow his mother had given him on his last name day. It was a proper weapon for a hunt, carved from black oak by one of the best bowyers in Blackburrow. Ramsay liked the way it felt in his hand: heavy and powerful, powerful as he hoped to become.

He raised his bow arm and took aim at a distant tree. With a twang of his bowstring, the arrow sliced through the air and pierced the heaving chest of his fleshy target. Blood pooled in the wound and trickled down the man's stomach.

Smiling, Ramsay lowered the bow to his side. "A fair shot, no?" he asked Reek.

Reek looked once more at the man bound to the tree. A thief he was, caught and punished by the master for trying to steal his mother's silver, what little she had. The master made clever use of him, as he always did.

Reek nodded. "A fair shot, Master. You're on your way to becoming a great marksman." The three arrows had hit their marks: two in the belly and one through the heart. The last had finally stopped the man's squirming. His head fell and his body went limp. Tonight, he would be food for the crows.

"Indeed," said Ramsay with a content nod, "but any man can shoot at a stationary target. What I need is a hunt and a worthy prey, fast and cunning as a fox." He turned toward Reek and glowered at the empty space beside him, where his gift should have been standing.

"Where is it?" he asked, his fingers tightening around the bow grip. "Where is my present, Reek? Today is my name day, if you remember, and you bring me nothing but flies and your stench? Is that how you would honor your master, Reek? _Is it?_"

Reek stumbled back, shaking his head violently. "No! No! I tried — I tried, but she was spoiled! You deserve better, Master, much better than some peasant girl. I found you a better present, Master, truly!"

Ramsay pointed a short, stubby finger toward a nearby tree. "Go stand next to that tree, Reek," he ordered, and his smelly servant reluctantly obeyed. "Closer … Closer … Stop!"

Reek stopped.

"Now, place your hand against the trunk, palm facing out. Very good, Reek." There was a glimmer in his grey eyes, and his thin lips stretched into a wide grin. "Stay very still. I'd hate to miss … though, you'd hate it more, I'm afraid."

Reek's hand started shaking, but he held it in place for his master. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain.

Ramsay counted, "One … two … three!"

The crunch of his bones came first, followed by the thump of the arrowhead hitting the trunk. After that, Reek heard only his own screams as blood poured from his hand. The arrow shaft was sticking out of his palm, feathers flickering in the wind. In his madness, Reek wanted to rip his hand free, even if it meant tearing it in half.

Ramsay came forward. "So sorry, Reek. I suppose I need more practice, don't I?" He grasped the shaft and gave it a cruel twist before he yanked it out of his servant's hand. The smell of Reek's gushing blood made his head spin. "What were you saying, Reek? You found me a better present, you said? Well, where is it?"

Reek was binding his injured hand with cloth torn from his tattered tunic. "I'll — I'll show you! Come, this way. Follow me!" Clutching his bandaged hand to his chest, Reek staggered toward the riverbank and waited for his master to join him. "There!" he said, gesturing with his hand. "Look there, Master!"

Ramsay had to squint to see it clearly. In the far distance, surrounded by wisps of smoke and cloud, stood the dark towers of the Dreadfort, the seat of House Bolton. For days the builders had been working tirelessly to construct the lists in time for Domeric Bolton's name day tourney. It would be the first time the Dreadfort would ever host such a grand event. Lord Bolton was not fond of feasts or tourneys, but his son and heir had grown accustomed to such lavish celebrations while living in Redfort. Lady Bolton thought a proper tourney would bring a smile to her son's sullen face.

"What of it?" Ramsay asked with a disinterested snort. "Why should I care about the Boltons?"

Reek stifled a laugh. "Because … because … you're the bast—" He smothered the rest of the word with his hands. _Stupid, stupid Reek! He taught you with beatings and slashings not to say that word! Now he__'ll teach you again, another painful lesson. Not a bastard. Never a bastard. Only the master. _

When Ramsay turned, there was a fire in his eyes. "What did you say, Reek?"

Reek backed away, thinking he should bite off his tongue before it betrayed him a second time. "B-Bastard," he uttered despite himself. "You're the bastard of the Dreadfort. You're Roose Bolton's bastard son!" He braced himself for his punishment, but it never came.

Sneaking a quick peek, Reek found his master staring across the river.

The wind whirled across the icy waters and ruffled Ramsay's black hair. Somehow the Dreadfort seemed closer now, within reach. After five long years of waiting and wondering, he had finally found the answer to the question which had plagued his thoughts and dreams. Not a night went by without him thinking of her, Drucilla Bolton, the little lady with eyes like his: ghostly and grey. Now he knew why their meeting had left such a lasting impression — a scar to match the ones he'd given her. He smiled at the memory and longed for their reunion.

Ramsay turned and strode back to the cottage, where his mother had baked a hot onion pie for his supper. "Be sure to wash well, Reek," he said over his shoulder. "You wouldn't want to offend the Boltons with your foul smell. Mother will make you some new clothes as well. Those dirty rags won't do at all."

Reek was slow to follow. "Master, I don't understand."

Ramsay didn't miss a stride. "Well of course we must attend my brother's name day celebration. It would be rude not to."_ Besides, I have a game to finish … __and a prize to claim._


	10. CHAPTER 10

**Chapter 10: The Tourney**

Drucilla rode to her brother's tourney with Hilda and her cousins Tansy and Tally Ryswell, in a wooden cart with wheels that wobbled and creaked with each turn. In truth, it was an old vegetable cart that the carpenter had fashioned into a passenger cart. "You'll be riding in comfort, m'ladies," he promised, "just like they do in the South."

But this cart was not like the litters and wheelhouses in the South. The benches were hard and uncovered, and they made Drucilla's backside ache. She never wanted to ride in the cart, she thought as she dug a splinter out of her palm. Her cousins were the ones who'd demanded it. Didn't want to get their dresses dirty, they said. The ground was muddy and squishy and spotted with brown puddles from the previous night's rain. It was still drizzling now, on and off.

"Oh, what a horrible day for a tourney," Hilda grumbled as she glared at the cloudy sky. Tiny droplets of water speckled her round, puffy face, and she wiped them away with her hand. "I prayed to the gods for blue skies and sunshine. Clearly, they had other plans. They always do."

Tansy and Tally drew up their hoods and started to shiver. They too had hoped for sunshine on this day of all days, when the Dreadfort would be overflowing with gallant knights and noble sons. The girls had spent weeks sewing their dresses: deep blue gowns embroidered with white, winter flowers around the collars and sleeves. The beauty of them could scarcely be seen let alone admired beneath their woolen cloaks. Tally wore her hair in a low bun, leaving golden-blonde tendrils to frame her heart-shaped face. Tansy decorated her hair with an ornate silver headband; the rest poured over her shoulders in loose curls. They both wanted to look their best because today was the last day of the tourney and their last chance to catch the eye of a potential suitor.

Drucilla wasn't concerned about finding a husband. When the time came, she knew her lord father would make her a suitable match. Today, she dressed as she always did. Over her grey gown she wore a black overcoat with long, belled sleeves and a high collar clasped with small, silver brooches. The flayed man was embroidered on the right breast of her coat. She needed no further embellishments.

Beyond the castle walls, dozens of pavilions had been raised beside the Weeping Water, each with its own banner, and the smallfolk came out in the hundreds to watch the games and celebrate Domeric Bolton's name day. Tansy and Tally couldn't stop smiling as they stared about the tourney grounds. It was far less grand than the tourneys in the songs or in the South, but it possessed its own rugged sort of charm. For the first time in history, the Dreadfort was bustling with the sounds of laughter and music and the clangor of steel on steel.

Ser Kyle Condon passed by on a horse as black as a starless night. Dashing and dignified, he wore a blood-red jerkin and pair of brilliant steel spaulders over his broad shoulders. Tally nearly fainted when he looked at her. She thought he should have won yesterday's melee. He had fought more valiantly than any of the other fifty competitors, but she would never say that aloud, not while Horace Heartcleaver was riding alongside them. He had won the contest and killed a man in the process, claiming the five thousand gold dragons for himself. Tally had always wondered how he'd received such a strange name as Heartcleaver, but yesterday she found her answer. Even with a blunt sword, the gruff giant had managed to cut a man in two, splitting him between the neck and shoulder. Tally and her sister covered their eyes when it happened, but Drucilla watched the whole thing and retold the gruesome event over supper that evening, in vivid detail.

Ser Kyle had also participated in yesterday's horse race with thirty other riders. Lord Ryswell's eldest sons, Roger and Rickard, rode forth on powerful brown steeds. Daryn Hornwood and Benfred Tallhart were among the youngest competitors, but what they lacked in experience they made up with enthusiasm — or arrogance, as Lord Hornwood called it. The noble sons of House Karstark competed as well, proudly displaying the white sunburst of their house. Last to enter were a few Stouts and Lockes, followed by some freeriders and household knights, and finally Domeric Bolton himself, astride Storm. Any smart man would have put his money on Domeric Bolton on his name day, but Lord Manderly insisted that a boy so young would never be able to outrun seasoned riders like Ser Kyle or Roger Ryswell.

The track stretched all the way around the Weeping Water. Benfred Tallhart's horse got spooked by the trumpeting horn and threw him into the cold water. The crowd laughed when he pulled a flapping fish from his trousers, but Tally still thought him handsome.

Roger Ryswell took the early lead, but Domeric Bolton surged ahead at the last minute, passing Torrhen Karstark and Ser Kyle, and stole his victory. Lord Manderly moaned and groaned, calling it beginners luck. Then Domeric shocked everyone when he tossed his winnings into the crowd of common folk. They all cheered and shouted his name, but it was Sansa Stark who clapped the loudest. With that kind gesture, he had stolen her heart, and she was smitten. Lord Bolton wasn't as impressed with Domeric's generous act; neither was Drucilla. With every gold coin that landed on the ground or in some commoner's hand, she thought of the small fortune this tourney had cost her family. Domeric gave it away like it was nothing.

"Shouldn't we head to the jousting field?" Tally asked as the girls strolled through the tourney grounds. The joust had already begun, and they were missing the early rounds. Benfred Tallhart would be competing, and Tally wanted to see him ride, even though he was sure to lose and embarrass himself a second time.

Drucilla was nibbling on a skewer of roasted deer meat. "Actually," she said, wiping the juices off her chin, "I find the small games far more exciting." She didn't want to sit in the gallery with all the high lords and ladies while two grown men tried to poke each other with sticks. That was a Southern spectacle, her father often said, and it had no place in the North.

But Hilda made a big fuss about it. "Your lord father is expecting you, child, as is your brother. This is his day, remember, not yours. You should be by his side, not wandering about the grounds like some commoner."

She tossed the skewer over her shoulder. "The joust has only just started, Hilda, and everyone knows the early rounds are a bore to watch. We will go later, after the small games have finished." She made a gesture with her hand, and Horace Heartcleaver resumed his steady stride. The others reluctantly followed.

In the archery field, Marvin the Maneater was aiming at a target from a hundred paces back. His weirwood bow he'd made himself, and his arrowheads were carved from bone — animal, he claimed, but many believed they were the human bones of his enemies. His long, lean body was hairless and marked with scars and burns, which he'd inflicted upon himself in honor of the old gods. He dressed in heavy animal pelts and spoke in a deep, raspy voice. Tansy and Tally hated to look at him … at his eyes most of all. Black they were, cold and empty, so empty a man could drown in the darkness of them.

"Why do they call him Marvin the Maneater?" Tansy quietly asked, keeping her hand over her mouth in case the Maneater could read her lips.

The Maneater stood perfectly still, eyes narrow and focused on the target. Around him, his three competitors were watching closely and studying his every move. Orlan Branch, considered by many to be the best archer in the North, had his arms crossed over his chest. He muttered something under his breath.

"Because he's a Skagg," Drucilla answered. "He comes from a tribe of cannibals from Skagos. Why do you think he has such sharp teeth?" She ran her tongue over her own teeth. "Sharp as daggers they are, perfect for ripping and tearing flesh off the bone. Sharpens them himself, I heard. Sharpens them like a man sharpens his sword. And during the full moon, he makes a sacrifice to the gods. He takes a man from the dungeons and cuts his throat before the heart tree. He says it brings good luck."

Tansy flinched when the arrow thudded against target. Then came the applause. It was a perfect shot. The Maneater lowered his bow to his side and strode off without a word. The herald came forward to call the next archer.

Further down the riverbank, the axe throwing competition was in its final rounds when Drucilla finally reached the contest. Among the remaining competitors were Harrison Bole with his large, jiggling belly, Thorntun Woods, Smalljon Umber, and his brother, Jarron. At eighteen, Jarron Umber was the youngest and the smallest of the Greatjon's sons, but the Greatjon insisted that the boy was still growing, and growing fast. Even so, Jarron was tall and strongly built like his father and older brothers.

"He grunts like a bear," Drucilla whispered to Tansy as Jarron heaved the axe over his head with both hands, but their giggles stopped when the axe thwacked the very center of the target. Drucilla thought he must have heard her comment because Jarron then turned toward the young ladies and gave a deep bow, rising with a small smile on his bearded face.

His older brother was next. The Smalljon threw twice as hard as Jarron and nearly smashed the target to pieces. "HA!" he boomed, clobbering Jarron's shoulder with his fist. "Did you see that, brother? Did you see? They'll be nothing left of it by the time I'm through." He threw his head back and guffawed. The Smalljon would go on to win the contest, while his brother would finish third.

Drucilla did not linger after the contest was over, but Tansy continued to talk about Jarron Umber and his impressive strength long after he was out of sight. "Did you see the way he smiled at you, Drucilla? He fancies you, I think. Why else would he smile like that? They say Jarron Umber never smiles and he seldom speaks, but he has kind eyes. Kind eyes mean a kind soul, Mother used to say, and kind souls make for kind husbands."

"Kind, yes," Drucilla agreed, "but as the fourth-born son, Jarron Umber stands to inherit little. He will likely live out the rest of his days serving as his brother's bannerman. I will not be the lady of a meager holdfast. The gods have much greater plans for me."

She knew because she had asked them herself. On the night of her twelfth name day, the summer snows fell like stars from the sky. Drucilla went into the godswood and stood vigil all night, staring into the carven face of the heart tree. The face stared back and listened to her prayers. Then a single five-pointed leaf floated down from the high branches and landed upon a pit of snow.

_Red on white_, she recalled, _the colors of House Redfort__'s blazon_. She had seen them on her brother's cloak, but she knew not their significance, not yet.

As she breathed in the damp air, Drucilla caught a whiff of something horrible, dead and rotten. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Reek standing amongst the crowd. He was glaring at her with his droopy brown eyes, and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth like a slimy, pink worm.

Drucilla glared back. _What is that creature doing here? Father sent him away years ago. _She called for Horace Heartcleaver and his sword, but Reek was gone as soon as the words left her lips. He'd scurried away like the smelly rat he was. _Father should have killed him_, she thought. _Father should have killed him and flayed him. _

Hilda came forward, her nose red from the chill. "Shall we proceed to the jousting yard, my lady? Your absence has already been noted, I promise you, and your brother will surely take it as an insult." She sniffled as she spoke. Tansy and Tally were sniffling too.

"My brother can take it however he likes." She turned to leave, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw something strange which stopped her in her tracks. There was another man standing in Reek's place, standing all alone in the middle of the crowd. Around him, smallfolk and soldiers came and went, but he never moved. He just stared forward with his pale grey eyes and smiled at Drucilla like an old friend. It made her shudder, that smile, and her inner arms started to itch and burn.

_I know that smile_, she thought_, and those eyes … __Father__'s eyes. Is this a ghost I'm seeing or flesh and blood? It cannot be real! He's dead. Father said he was dead!_

A giant shadow consumed her own, and Horace asked with a grunt, "Somethin' wrong, m'lady?"

Drucilla looked away for a second, and when she looked back, the man was gone. She looked for him in the crowd but found nothing. She started to wonder if he was ever there at all.

"No," she answered. "No, I'm fine." Her cousins wore matching expressions of worry. Drucilla forced a smile. "Come, it's time to leave now. We wouldn't want to keep my brother waiting." She lifted her skirt out of the mud and forged ahead with a confident stride.

_It wasn't him,_ she told herself, _that boy with eyes like Father's. It wasn't him. It couldn't have been him._


	11. CHAPTER 11

**Chapter 11: A Lady's Favor**

Benfred Tallhart's polished armor sparkled in the sunlight. After three days of nearly constant rain, the storm clouds had at last broken apart and faded into small wisps of grey and white. _A good omen_, he thought as he glanced up at the sky; to him it had never seemed so blue. _The gods are smiling upon me today._ They had already helped him to win his first match against a household knight sworn to House Locke. The fat old man toppled off his horse with one blow from Benfred's lance. Fool's luck his cousin Brandon had called it: "Your opponent was half off his horse before you struck him." Benfred liked to think that wasn't so, and he intended to prove his cousin wrong in his next match.

"Lord Benfred of House Tallhart," announced the herald.

Benfred gave his horse a kick with his heels and cantered onto the field, his forest-green cloak flowing behind him. Engraved on his steel breastplate were the three sentinel trees of House Tallhart, and his horse was caparisoned in green and brown. The boy threw his fist into the air and bellowed, "Proud and free!" He heard the lords and ladies chuckle and saw his father shaking his head. Brandon Tallhart was sitting beside him and holding back a laugh. That lit a fire inside Benfred. _  
_

_Watch me, cousin_, he thought. _Fool's luck, ha! The Others take your fool's luck! _

Next, the herald called Daryn of House Hornwood to the field. Benfred remembered how Daryn had japed about his performance in yesterday's horse race. "Decided to go for a swim, did you?" the boy said while Benfred was sitting on the riverbank and dumping water out of his boots. For that, Benfred chucked his boot at the boy's head, but he missed and then had to fish it back out of the river. _  
_

_The fool of yesterday_, thought Benfred, _but I'll be the hero of today._ He lowered his visor and took his position. Daryn threw a kiss to Alys Karstark and then did the same.

Both boys readied their lances and charged each other at full speed, abandoning all style and strategy for the sake of brute strength. The two collided in the middle. Benfred's point hit first and shattered against the moose on Daryn's breastplate. Daryn's counterstrike came seconds after, with equal force. The wood exploded and sharp splinters went flying. All the ladies gasped, the common folk cheered, and Alys Karstark was out of her seat. A riderless horse trotted down the lane, and her betrothed was lying face-down on the ground. His competitor lay on the other side of the tilt, his armor dented and helm rolling across the dirt.

Lord Manderly was laughing so hard wine sprayed out of his nostrils. "They've knocked each other unconscious, the fools! Buahahahaha!" As he laughed, his young squire tried to dab his coat dry with a handkerchief. The fat lord had been drinking since his arrival, from a silver goblet from his personal collection. His stubby, sausage fingers swatted at the squire's busy hand. "Leave me be, boy! I said, leave me! Hahaha!"

* * *

Tally Ryswell arrived at the jousting yard just in time to see her beloved Benfred Tallhart being carried away on a deer hide stretcher. His head of blond hair bobbed up and down as he groggily asked, "Did I win? Did I win?" Daryn Hornwood was on the stretcher behind him, nursing a bloody nose and a broken arm. Despite their protests, both boys were forced to withdraw from the competition and would likely spend the rest of their visit in the sickrooms.

"I bet he rode valiantly," Tally said with a hopeful glimmer in her eye.

Tansy stifled a laugh. "By the look of him, I'd say he rode carelessly."

"Even so," Tally replied in a waning voice, "he's still handsome."

By then, the grounds crew was busy preparing the yard for the next match. They shoveled dirt over the bloody spot where Benfred Tallhart's face had smashed against the ground, and they found one of his teeth as well. Drucilla wondered if Tally would still consider him handsome with one less tooth. She'd once discarded a brooch because it was missing a single gemstone. Reek later found that brooch and pinned it on himself. The guards thought he'd stolen it, and so he was whipped in the yard.

Drucilla glanced over her shoulder for a second time, expecting to find him standing there. Instead, she saw a young man, tall and lean, with messy brown hair. Astride a chestnut horse, he was casually weaving his way through the crowd, tipping his head to knights and noblemen and smiling at all the young maidens, fair or not. He wore a cream-colored arming doublet that had been splashed with muddy brown water but bore no visible coat of arms. A penniless hedge knight, Drucilla guessed, and likely from the South. He seemed much too soft to be a Northerner.

Beside the knight walked his plump squire, bald but for a few wisps of black hair on the sides of his head. He muttered something that made his master laugh, and Drucilla couldn't help but wonder what he'd said.

"Come, child," Hilda kept saying, but Drucilla assumed she was talking to one of her cousins, who'd likely stopped to gawk at a boy. It was all they ever did.

She didn't realize that she'd stopped walking herself, not until Tally suddenly smacked into her. Drucilla dropped her gaze for a moment, long enough to watch Tally's face flush with embarrassment, and when she looked back, the young hedge knight was staring right at her and smiling.

Gasping, Drucilla immediately turned away and resumed her stride. "Do you think Ser Kyle will win?" she asked her cousins, hoping their voices might distract her.

"Oh, I'm sure he will," Tally answered. "When he was young, he often participated in the Southern tourneys, you know, and those are real tourneys with real knights …"

Her cousin's voice faded as Drucilla heard a horse approaching. On the ground beside her she could see the shadowed silhouette of the rider as he walked alongside them. She granted him not even the briefest glance, but still he spoke.

"Your name, fair lady," he said with a fine poetic air, as if quoting a passage from a romantic ballad. "I must have it."

Drucilla maintained a steady pace and kept her eyes forward. Her cousins were giggling behind her. Then Hilda came to her side, as if to shield the young maiden's virtue from this mysterious and untrustworthy stranger. "You are speaking to Lady Drucilla of House Bolton, ser, the daughter of Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. You have the honor of jousting in his son's tourney."

"And honored I am," the knight replied, leaning forward to see past the old woman, but she kept blocking his view with her big head. "Does the lady not possess a voice of her own?"

Drucilla stopped suddenly, making her cousins stumble. The knight stopped too. Although her governess had advised her not to address this man directly, Drucilla brushed the old woman aside and stepped forward. "And what is your name, ser?" she asked, looking directly into his dark blue eyes. He seemed to shudder beneath her piercing gaze.

"Ser Eric," he finally answered, "of Heart Hill."

"Heart Hill?" She pursed her lips. "There is no such place."

"You must be well traveled then, my lady, to have visited every place in the world."

"No," she said, "but I have studied maps."

"Every map?"

"The ones that matter."

"You mean the ones that matter only to you."

"Yes—" The knight cocked his head to one side and smiled as the young lady's cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink. "I mean, no." Drucilla glared at her snickering cousin and went on with a frustrated huff, "What is it you want, ser?"

"Your favor, my lady. I wish to ride in your honor."

Drucilla nodded. "And if you should lose? What is to become of my honor then?"

He laughed. "Well, I do not intend to lose."

"No man ever does. But you see, Ser Eric, I'm afraid I have no favors to give, and to a hedge knight least of all."

His eyes widened. "You refuse?" He glanced at his squire, who merely shrugged his shoulders in response. "Well, if you will not give me your favor, sweet lady, perhaps you would be kind enough to give me a smile at least? One smile from you, and I think I could defeat every man here."

Speechless, Drucilla looked to her governess for help. The old woman stepped forward immediately and said, "My lady, we really must be going. You have dawdled quite long enough, I think." She glanced sharply at the young hedge knight and then turned to leave. Drucilla quietly followed, as did her cousins, but Tally left the knight with a kind word and a gentle wave: "I wish you luck, handsome knight."

As for Drucilla, she looked back only once, and when she did, the knight was still smiling at her.

* * *

The young ladies arrived at the gallery just as the horn sounded, signaling the start of the next match. Lord Roose Bolton was sitting in the place of high honor, beneath a canopy of pink and red, with his wife seated on his right and his liege lord, Eddard Stark, on his left. The two lords spoke but a few words to each other and watched the competition with feigned interest.

Throughout the afternoon, the cup-bearers came and went. At each pass, Lord Bolton refused to drink but one cup of his spiced wine; and what he refused, his wife gladly consumed herself. She was just about to take her third cup when her husband suddenly reached over and seized her wrist with a firm grip.

"I think you've had quite enough wine, dear," he said, keeping his eyes forward; then he made a gesture with his hand, and the servant took the wine cup from his lady and left.

Lady Bolton hid her anger behind a smile. "Your concern for me is most flattering, but I am not a child." The cup-bearer, she called him back and had him pour her the third cup she desired. She gulped it down while her husband watched; then, with a wicked glimmer in her eye, she called for a fourth cup.

Her younger sister, Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton, was sitting with her brothers on the right side of the gallery. Her grey-and-brown hair was tied back in a widow's knot, out of respect for the late Lord William Dustin. The long years spent as a widow had turned her heart bitter and formed tiny wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, but Lady Barbrey was still as handsome as her older sister, with a longer face and fuller figure. She smiled when she saw her niece approaching.

"Drucilla, dear, that collar seems so tight," she said, tugging gently at her own collar. "It must be strangling you."

Drucilla stood proudly. "This is the traditional dress worn by the women of House Bolton," she replied. "My late great-grandmother, Rubina Bolton, favored a similar style, as did her mother before her, and her mother before her. So you see, I'm simply preserving my family's legacy."

Her aunt nodded. "I heard Rubina Bolton was mad," she said, bringing a frown to Drucilla's lips. "I heard she bathed herself in virgins' blood and disfigured the faces of all the beautiful women in the land, slicing at their skin with a sharp flaying knife." She went through the motions with her hand. "In her final years, she became convinced that all her servants were conspiring to murder her, and so she ordered them all to be hanged in the Dreadwood, every last one of them."

Drucilla smirked. "Perhaps they were conspiring against her. Do you know how she died? Days later, she was found at the bottom of the stairs, her frail body bent and broken and her neck twisted all the way around." She made a spiral with her finger. "Some say she fell. Others claim she was pushed, but by whom, nobody knows. The castle was empty, after all." She shrugged. "Maybe the ghosts decided to take their revenge."

Her aunt clapped her hands and laughed. "Oh, Drucilla, such stories you tell. You know, you remind me of your mother at your age. How she loved her stories … We should have a visit, you and I. I would love to hear more about your family's fascinating history, especially that Rubina Bolton."

Drucilla smiled. "I would love that more than anything. Later, perhaps. But now, if you'll excuse me, I must find my seat." She curtsied and continued on her way, passing the Hornwoods, the Karstarks, and finally the Umbers.

For Drucilla Bolton, the Greatjon had no smile or kind words to say when she walked by. Honestly, Drucilla was surprised to find the Greatjon in attendance. The last time he visited the Dreadfort was when he came to retrieve the remains of his late sister, and that had not been a pleasant exchange, or so she heard. The Greatjon didn't believe that his sister had died of fever, but he had no evidence to prove otherwise, and so he had no choice but to swallow his anger and let it simmer inside his belly, simmer and simmer until it eventually boiled over. It was only a matter of time.

Her brother was sitting in the row in front of the canopy, preferring a hard bench over a cushioned chair. "So you finally decided to join us," he said to his sister as she claimed the seat beside him. On the jousting field, Ser Kyle Condon was beginning his second pass against Ser Garrett Glover. Domeric stopped in mid-sentence to watch them ride; then he jumped up and cheered when Ser Kyle unseated his opponent. "Did you see that, Drucilla? That is a rare talent!"

While her brother was distracted by all the action on the field, Drucilla caught Sansa Stark sneaking a glance in their direction. It was Domeric Bolton she was staring at, and there was a sadness in her blue Tully eyes when he failed notice her. Despite her young age, Sansa Stark was already considered a rare beauty in the North, with her high cheekbones and long auburn hair, but today she looked especially lovely. She'd clothed herself in a dark purple dress embroidered with intricate vines and leaves, and draped over her shoulders was a wrap of grey wolf fur. No doubt she had worked hard on that dress, and for this very occasion, but her betrothed had yet to compliment it.

"Sansa Stark is unhappy," Drucilla whispered to her brother after he sat back down, "and she keeps looking over here with that pathetic look on her face. It's extremely annoying."

Domeric turned his head but saw nothing to suggest so. Sansa Stark was sitting quietly with her septa like a typical maiden. Robb Stark was the one who looked miserable, sitting there with his arms crossed and a sour expression on his face. Domeric shrugged. "She doesn't seem unhappy. A bit bored maybe, but that's hardly unusual considering the setting. I suppose she expected something a bit more grand from this tourney, like something out of the songs. Unfortunately, we're not in the South. I guess we're both disappointed in that regard."

For that comment, Drucilla gave her brother a hard slap on the shoulder. "No, she's upset because you've been ignoring her! She is to be your wife, remember, and if Ned Stark backs out of this arrangement because his daughter is unhappy, Father will be very disappointed with you."

"Ned Stark won't back out of the arrangement. Unlike Father, he is a man of honor."

"And I thought you were, too," Drucilla threw back, making Domeric roll his eyes. "An honorable man would not ignore his betrothed after she has traveled all this way to celebrate his name day. So you will go to her now and make her happy."

His jaw dropped. "What? Why? … I - I wouldn't even know what to say to her."

"Say anything. Make her smile. Make her laugh. Use some of that charm everyone insists you have. Do whatever you have to do to make her happy."

Domeric looked once more at Sansa Stark. Her auburn hair was kept in fine braids and shimmered like strands of copper in the sunlight. A beauty she was, but still only a child. And she wasn't Cassandra. Domeric frowned. _Not Cassandra_, he thought, _but one day this child will be my wife and the mother of my children. By agreeing to this marriage, I swore an oath to the gods, and they take those oaths very seriously. _He rose from his seat and approached the young maiden.

How sweetly she smiled at him, her sparkling blue eyes shaded by long brown lashes. For Domeric it was impossible not to smile back, even if it betrayed his heart. "My lady," he said, "may I have the honor of your company?"

Sansa turned to her septa for counsel and received a subtle nod of approval. There was a shy blush on her face when she said to Domeric, "The honor would be mine, my lord. Please, sit."

Domeric thanked her and sat down; then came the long, uncomfortable silence as he struggled to make pleasant conversation. The delay between matches certainly didn't help. "I hope you are enjoying your visit," he finally said.

"Yes, I am," she answered. "The Dreadfort is … lovely."

Domeric started to laugh, and Sansa looked absolutely horrified. She thought she had said something wrong and shamed herself.

"The Dreadfort is many things, sweet lady," Domeric went on, "but lovely is a word which seldom comes to mind … until today, perhaps, with a beauty such as you gracing its gates."

Again, he made the young lady smile and blush. Further down the row, Robb Stark turned to his friend Cley Cerwyn. "He's really laying it on thick, isn't he?" The boys snickered until the septa's stern glare commanded them to stop.

"Robb," the woman said, "Lady Drucilla is sitting alone. Perhaps you should give her the gift of _your_ company."

_I'd rather not_, Robb thought as he leaned back and gazed upon the maiden from afar. While her cousins chatted amongst themselves, Drucilla sat perfectly composed with her hands neatly folded on her lap. Roose Bolton in a dress, Daryn Hornwood often called her. Colder than winter, with eyes like snow. He claimed she had once cursed him with those pale eyes, cursed him with redspots which left him scratching and miserable for days, all because he'd called her father the Leech Lord. It wasn't true, of course, as redspots were rather common among children, but still Robb didn't like the idea of sitting next to her, and even worse, speaking to her. Those eyes of hers, they frightened him more than he cared to admit, because they reminded him of all the stories he'd heard as a child … about that room …

"Go, boy!" the septa hissed. Robb jumped at the sound and reluctantly made the long walk across the gallery. Ned Stark wore a small smile on his bearded face as he watched his eldest son solemnly trudge by, and Roose Bolton followed the boy's every step, with only his eyes.

Robb stopped in front of the bench and cleared his throat. "My lady, may I sit with you?" He braced himself for Drucilla's icy stare, but nothing could ease the discomfort he felt in that moment. One look from her stole all the breath from his lips and made his blood freeze. _Daryn was wrong_, Robb realized, _those eyes are paler than even snow, and much, much colder. _

Drucilla smiled. "Of course, I would be delighted."

His knees buckled as he sat down beside her. Never again would he look into those eyes. Never again. Thankfully, the horn blew shortly after, and the next match was about to begin. The herald stepped onto the field and called the first rider: Ser Myron of House Manderly, a knight for only five years but already an accomplished jouster, having won the tourney at White Harbor and the tourney at Highgarden only two years prior. He wore silver-colored armor with ocean-blue painted accents, and the visor of his helm resembled a golden trident.

"That's my nephew there," Lord Manderly said loudly enough for all to hear. "Best rider I've ever seen. He's a natural, that one, and still so young. A few more years and he'll be unstoppable."

Then the herald called Ser Eric of Heart Hill, and Drucilla strained her neck to see over the giant Umbers in front of her. The young hedge knight rode onto the field in second-hand armor, dull and dented, with some of the red paint scraped off. He approached the gallery and presented himself to Wynafryd Manderly, the eldest granddaughter of Lord Manderly. She had a string of pearls woven through her braided brown hair and wore a dress the color of the sea. The knight removed his helm and said something to the lady, something inaudible to Drucilla's distant ears.

"Are you fond of the joust, my lady?" Robb Stark asked, drowning out what little she could hear.

"Not particularly," Drucilla muttered, but she really wanted to tell him to shut up. A smile, that was all the knight had wanted from Drucilla, and now he was being offered the white handkerchief of Wynafryd Manderly as a token of her support. Drucilla glared at the both of them, but for reasons she couldn't understand. It was just some silly tourney, after all, and he was just some poor hedge knight for whom no songs would ever be sung.

"So what do you enjoy, then?" Robb asked, and Drucilla could restrain herself no longer.

"Oh, stop pretending like you have any interest in what I have to say. It's insulting. Admit it, you'd rather be anywhere else in the world than sitting here with me, the Little Witch of the Dreadfort." Robb opened his mouth but could utter not a word before Drucilla cut him off. "Don't think I don't know what they whisper behind my back — about me and my family. They're all lies. I don't torture small animals, nor have I ever made human sacrifices or danced naked beneath the full moon. My eyes cannot steal your soul — so you can look upon them without fear, _my lord_ — and my lips can conjure no curses. And I didn't give Daryn Hornwood the redspots. He's a fool and a liar."

When she was finished, Drucilla Bolton was red-faced and seething with anger, and Robb Stark was speechless. "If I said anything to offend you, my lady, I apologize. That was not my intent, truly."

The anger faded from her face, but the color deepened. She turned away from him and mumbled, "Stories."

Robb's brow furrowed. "What?"

"You asked what I enjoy. I like stories — hearing them, telling them. Stories, that's what I enjoy."

They said nothing more to each other, but Robb Stark felt more relaxed than when he first sat down, and Drucilla's temper had calmed. On the field, the two knights were standing on opposite ends on the tilt. Ser Myron dropped his visor with a loud clang and called for his lance. Ser Eric did the same. The gallery shook as both horses broke into a gallop, and Drucilla was on the edge of her seat. Ser Eric rode hard, keeping his eye on the target, but it was Ser Myron who struck first. The lance exploded on his red breastplate and Ser Eric swung violently to the right, fighting to keep his seat.

"No wonder his armor is so dented," Tally said. "Has he never jousted before? You're supposed to avoid being hit, not just sit there and take the blow."

But Ser Eric did take the blow, and without attempting a strike of his own; then he jerked his mount and came around for a second pass. Ser Myron grabbed a new lance from his squire and rode out to meet him. This time, the hedge knight anticipated Ser Myron's attack, and he shifted in his seat and delivered one of his own, hitting him square. Wood shattered and went flying. Lord Manderly's silver goblet heaved, splashing wine everywhere. Drucilla gasped and gripped Robb Stark's arm. Ser Myron came off his seat, falling heels over head, and crashed to the ground.

A loud cheer erupted from the commons, but they all fell silent when they saw Domeric Bolton stand up.

Towering over everyone else, the heir to the Dreadfort slowly descended the gallery while clapping his hands to the steady rhythm of his gait. "Well done, ser. Such a unique style you have. Bold and dramatic and what some might call reckless, but it served you well today." He paused for a moment to think. "And yet … I feel like I've seen it before." He smirked. "Remove your helm, Creighton Redfort."

The knight chuckled. "That's _Ser_ Creighton Redfort now, I'll have you know." He lifted the helm off his head and revealed the boyish grin of an old friend. "Happy name day, my lord."

The ladies in the gallery _oohed_ and _awed_ at the Valeman's unexpected appearance, while Lord Manderly started blubbering on and on about how the knight had entered under a false name and should be eliminated from the competition, but nobody paid him any mind. And Drucilla Bolton, she sat with her mouth agape and stared fixedly at the hedge knight, who apparently wasn't a hedge knight at all but rather the second son of one of the most powerful lords in the Vale, and her brother's dearest friend. Never before had she felt like such a fool.

She left soon after that, telling her cousins that she no longer cared who won the tourney. She marched down the stairs with her head held high and shouldered her way through the lower levels, ignoring all who attempted to engage her. Once at the bottom, she found the nearest guard and ordered him to escort her back to the Dreadfort, where she remained for the rest of the tourney, listening to the cheers from her bedroom window, the cheers which celebrated Ser Creighton Redfort as tourney champion.


	12. CHAPTER 12

**Chapter 12: The Feast**

Lord Manderly sat upon a thick wooden bench, slurping on his stubby, fat fingers while warm fish stew dripped from his beard and trickled down his three jiggling chins. He and his sons — just as fat and full-mouthed as their father but with better table manners at least — ate more in one night than the entire Bolton household did in an entire week. Drucilla watched them carefully as the courses came and went: soups and stews of fish, barley, and rabbit; rack of lamb baked in garlic and herbs, garnished with mint; roasted boar; salted cod; venison pies chunky with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms; salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums. The three of them, they gobbled and guzzled and gulped down bite after bite, bowl after bowl, with room still for the sweeter courses.

_Come winter we'll all starve_, Drucilla thought as she sipped at her wine, _all so Mother can host this farce of a feast._ The disdain on her face was as plain as Lord Manderly's growing belly, but the guests around her failed to notice. They dared not look at her, most of them, but they did whisper. There was no helping that. Drucilla couldn't hear them, though, not over the loud clanging and clattering of tableware and the low mumbles and mutters of a hundred drunk Northmen. The Greatjon was the loudest of them all, with a great booming laugh that could shake mountains.

Drucilla had been seated at a table with the other noble daughters and sons in attendance. Entertain them, her lord father had told her. It would be good practice for when she married and became the lady of a castle. Naturally, Drucilla wanted to please her father and make him proud, so she performed all the common courtesies expected of her. She gossiped with the young ladies and fawned over all the handsome young lords. She complimented a dozen gowns and laughed at a hundred terribly unfunny jokes. It was torture, but she did it for her house.

To her left sat her cousins Tansy and Tally, feasting quietly with perfect table manners. Alys Karstark sat across from them, dressed in her finest grey gown, her hair a tangled mess of brown curls. She flashed a gap-toothed smile every time Drucilla looked her way. A real dimwit, Drucilla thought she was, silly and stupid. No wonder Daryn Hornwood was so fond of her. Daryn himself couldn't attend the feast, for he was still abed with a broken arm after his failed attempt at jousting. His opponent, Benfred Tallhart, was absent as well, but his cousin Brandon had gladly taken his seat so that he could mock him in front of all the young Northern ladies, one of whom might one day become his bride. Tally didn't much like Brandon, not in the least.

According to Tansy, Drucilla had been given the best seat in the great hall because she had the honor of sitting next to Robb Stark, whom Tansy considered to be one of the most handsome men in Westeros. "And one day," she whispered to her cousin while Robb was turned away, "he'll be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Can you imagine it, Drucilla? _Lady of Winterfell?_" She fanned her flushing face with her hand. "Oh, the girl who marries him will be the luckiest girl in all the Seven Kingdoms!"

Drucilla snuck a glance at the Stark boy. _Perhaps not in the Seven Kingdoms_, she thought, _but in the North at least_.

All Northern girls dreamed of being named Lady of Winterfell at some point in their lives. It was, after all, the closest they would ever get to becoming queen. Drucilla had dreamt of it too, many times in fact, but that dream was all but lost now. When she was younger, her father had proposed the idea of marriage to Lord Stark, but the offer was quickly rejected. Lady Stark didn't like the idea of her son, her darling boy, marrying a Bolton girl, Drucilla least of all. Those wicked little whispers had reached her ears faster than Lord Bolton could silence them.

But nobody whispered about Domeric Bolton. For him, the common people offered only praise and well wishes.

Drucilla glared enviously at the high table, where the rest of her family sat, where she should have been sitting. Lady Bolton was drunk on summerwine and humming along to the music drifting down from the musicians' gallery. Her lord husband didn't much care for the noise, but he endured it nonetheless. As for Domeric, he ignored all his guests and spent the evening talking and laughing with Creighton Redfort, who sat at his side.

In truth, Drucilla had never seen her brother so happy, but she questioned the cost. Instead of entertaining Creighton Redfort, he should have been focusing his attention on Sansa Stark, his young and beautiful bride-to-be. He hadn't said one word to her since the tourney's end and offered her not even a comforting smile.

For her part, Sansa Stark hid her sadness well, as any proper lady would. She delighted all who visited her and even made Lord Bolton crack a smile or two. Then, after the second course had been served, she stood and treated all the guests to a lovely ballad while her fingers strummed along on the harp. It was her gift for her betrothed on his name day. She had practiced and practiced until her voice was hoarse and her fingers ached. She hoped her efforts would bring a smile to his face, but instead they brought only pain. Her sweet voice filled Domeric Bolton's heart with great sorrow, for it reminded him of the woman he loved but could never marry. When she finished, he turned away and hung his head in despair. Poor Sansa fought back tears as she returned to her seat, defeated.

Drucilla condemned her brother with her eyes. _Sansa Stark will soon be the most desired woman in the North. From the way he acts, you'd think she was some petty lord's ugly daughter. Father has handed Domeric the jewel of the North on a silver platter, and he sneers at it like an ungrateful child!_

"My lady," said Robb Stark.

Drucilla jumped at the noise and jerked her head around. He was staring at her with those bright blue Tully eyes, the eyes of his mother. Perhaps that was why he seemed to distrust her so. He was suspicious of her, that much Drucilla knew, and perhaps even afraid, but his overwhelming sense of honor would never let him act on it, not tonight. Instead, he played the gentleman and put on a smile.

"Shall I carve you a piece?" he asked, gesturing toward the rack of lamb. He had his belt knife in hand, ready to make the cut.

I can cut my own meat, Drucilla might have said if it had been any other night, with any other man. But on this night, with this man, she bit her tongue and said, "Please do."

With pleasure, Robb cut her a nice juicy chop from the rack and gently placed it on her plate. The smell of it made her mouth water, but Robb, he started to cough. He had been coughing all evening. The Dreadfort was never kind to foreigners, the Starks least of all. _If left untreated_, Drucilla thought, _it just might kill him_. She couldn't have that, so she summoned one of the servants and whispered her demands into his ear. The boy bowed his head and rushed off. Drucilla turned back to her meal and ate in silence. Robb coughed two more times and took another drink from his wine cup. The wine made him dizzy, but it soothed his burning throat for a short while.

Later, after the meat course had finished and the tables had been cleared, the servant returned with a small vial. Drucilla took it and offered it to Robb. "Here," she said, "slip this into your cup."

Robb leaned forward and studied the tiny black vial between her pale fingers. "My lady," he said, his voice exploding into a laugh, "I fear you are trying to poison me."

The wine was to blame for those words. Robb tried to take them back, but the damage had already been done. Drucilla wanted to smash the vial on the table and let him suffer. If he wasn't a Stark, she would have.

"You would insult my kindness?" she said. "You've had your bread and salt, my lord, and so you have nothing to fear from me. Besides, a Bolton would never murder a man at a feast, and never with poison. Poison is a coward's weapon. We are not cowards." She placed the vial on the table and drew her own belt knife. Robb's eyes widened as he watched her fingers toy with the blade's sharp point. "If we were to kill you, Lord Stark, we would do it with a knife."

Suddenly, Drucilla had the knife pointed at his chest, and she was smiling at him. "We would stab you in the heart, and we'd be looking right into your eyes as we did it. Remember these eyes, Lord Stark. They will be the last thing you ever see."

Robb looked to his left and to his right. Nobody had noticed. Nobody had seen. The music was too loud and the wine too plenty. Even his own father was distracted, swept away by a conversation with Lord Bolton. But Robb, he could feel the pressure of the blade against his chest and hear the point scratching against his leather jerkin. Worse still, he could feel the stinging chill of Drucilla Bolton's cold grey eyes, the true eyes of winter. And he could see the flayed men all around him — pink and red, strewn proudly on the stone walls — watching him. He dared not even breathe.

"Do I frighten you, my lord?" Drucilla asked with a smirk.

Robb's mouth fell open, and he uttered, "No, my lady."

His answer seemed to satisfied her. She withdrew her blade and sheathed it once more while Robb struggled to regain his breath. Then she picked up the vial and offered it to him one last time.

"This is not poison, I promise you, but it will stop that burning in your throat and quiet your cough. The wine will help it go down easier. The taste is quite unpleasant otherwise."

Robb hesitantly took the vial from her and poured its contents into his cup. Drucilla watched as he brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. Even mixed with the wine the liquid had an awful bitter taste, but already his throat felt a little better. He took another sip and then gulped the rest down like he hadn't had a proper drink in weeks.

Drucilla smiled. "You are a very brave man, Robb Stark," she said. "I could have been lying."

Robb swallowed what remained in his mouth and then lowered his cup. "Aye," he replied, his lips curling into a crooked smile, "you could have been lying."

"And what made you so certain I wasn't?"

"It's just as you said, my lady. Poison is a coward's weapon. And you are not a coward."

He turned away then, leaving Drucilla sitting there with her mouth agape. Cley Cerwyn and Brandon Tallhart were in the middle of an arm wrestling match, and Robb pretended to be interested like the other men around him. As for Drucilla, she stared at the back of his head for a long while and thought back to what Tansy had said.

_One day he'll be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and he'll be as honorable a lord as his father. The lady who marries him will be lucky, indeed. _

She snatched her wine cup off the table and took a long, long drink.

* * *

The night carried on slowly. Songs were sung and games were won, but Drucilla cared little for either activity. In truth, she was counting the hours, even the minutes, until it would be acceptable for her to retire for the night and return to her bedchamber.

During the fifth hour of feasting, the servants entered the hall with platters of hot pastries and pies, including a special treat for the Dreadfort's special guest: lemon cakes.

Sansa Stark's eyes lit up when she spotted them, and she looked at her lord father in disbelief. Surely, she thought, this meant that Domeric Bolton cared for her, at least a little. Why else would he request such an expensive treat for his name day feast? She leaned forward and stared down the table, hoping he might be smiling at her. He had such a lovely smile, Sansa always thought, honest and warm. She remembered how kind he had been during the tourney, as chivalrous as the finest knight. He spent the whole afternoon making her laugh and showering her with compliments.

But tonight he was different. Tonight he was cold and distant, but Sansa didn't let that discourage her. Domeric had given her lemon cakes, and for that she was happy.

After the dessert course had finished, the tables were pushed aside for dancing. Lord Manderly, the ever so bold, approached the high table and asked Lord Bolton for permission to dance with his fair wife for a few songs. Lady Bolton didn't wait for her husband's answer before giving Lord Manderly her hand. "I would be honored, Lord Manderly," she said. Meanwhile, her younger sister, having received no invitations of her own, rather forcefully asked (though some would say demanded) the Greatjon to dance with her. The Greatjon happily obliged. "As if any man could ever refuse you, Lady Dustin!"

Sansa watched the couples dance from the high table. Brandon Tallhart was spinning Alys Karstark around so fast the poor girl became dizzy and tripped over her own feet. Her cousin Aymer busted out laughing and spilled wine all over his doublet. Alys fled the area immediately, her face burning with embarrassment, and spent the rest of the night in the company of her father and brothers.

With each passing song, the frown on Sansa's face deepened. A single lemon cake remained on her plate, untouched. Out of sympathy for his daughter, Lord Stark asked if she wanted to dance. Sansa politely declined.

"You know, there is no shame in dancing with your father," Lord Stark said, though he had secretly hoped she would say no. The Lord of Winterfell wasn't too fond of dancing. "You used to beg me to dance with you at feasts."

"When I was a child," Sansa replied, more harshly than she had intended. "Children dance with their fathers at feasts, not ladies. Ladies are supposed to dance with handsome lords and brave knights." Her voice started to crack, and she could feel the tears stinging her eyes. This night wasn't going at all like she'd hoped, but why? Had she done something wrong? Said the wrong thing?

Sansa was about to ask for permission to leave. She had just started to speak the words when Drucilla Bolton ascended the stairs and approached them at the high table. Her dress was red as blood, its high collar tight like a noose around her neck. Sansa shuddered at the sight of it.

In Winterfell, Jeyne Poole shared frightening stories about Lord Bolton's youngest daughter — his only daughter now, after Deanna's death. Jeyne said Drucilla had somehow caused Deanna's death. She said Drucilla had led the girl out to the river and drowned her in its icy waters. That was the tale she'd heard from the stableboy, who'd heard it from the butcher, who'd heard it from a goat farmer, who'd heard it from a fisherman. Sansa didn't want to believe those stories. Her septa always said proper ladies should never gossip, and Sansa thought herself a proper lady. During her time in the Dreadfort, Drucilla had only treated her with kindness. She took her on tours of the castle grounds and long horseback rides along the river, telling her stories about Domeric when he was a child. How could someone like that be so cruel? Those stories had to be false.

Drucilla curtsied and smiled. "Lord Stark, I hope you are enjoying your visit. So rarely does the Dreadfort have the pleasure of hosting such honored guests as your family."

Lord Stark bowed his head. "The pleasure is ours, my lady, truly."

When Drucilla turned toward Sansa, the younger girl sat up as tall as she could and smiled warmly. "Thank you for hosting us, Lady Drucilla. There has never lived a more gracious woman than you."

"Thank you, my lady." Drucilla curtsied once more, smiling at both Lord Stark and his daughter before taking her leave. She walked with all the grace of a Southern courtier, Sansa thought. Such a lady could not be the terrifying monster in Jeyne Poole's stories.

Drucilla visited her brother next, to honor him on his name day. He was dressed all in black, with the flayed man embroidered on his breast. Domeric arose from his seat like a gentleman and placed a tender kiss on his sister's cheek. "You look lovely tonight, sweet sister. It pleases me to see you enjoying yourself." He had seen her talking to Robb Stark and laughing with the other ladies. Perhaps there was hope for his sister yet. Perhaps one day she would even want to leave the Dreadfort.

"Happy name day, my brother," Drucilla said, "I wish you a very prosperous year." Then she kissed his cheek and whispered into his ear, "Do not forget, your duties are to Sansa Stark, not Creighton Redfort. And tonight you have failed her greatly."

Domeric's eyes widened, and Drucilla stepped back. Before leaving, she threw Creighton Redfort a single glance, nothing more. Tonight, he was dressed in a dark blue doublet embroidered with gold, and his short brown hair was perfectly groomed. He sat with a cup of wine in his hand and a smile on his face. And he had the nerve to wink at Drucilla when she looked at him.

Drucilla turned around and descended the stairs once more.

* * *

While everyone else danced and drank to their hearts' content, Drucilla stood with her cousin Tansy and all the other ladies who were without dance partners: the fat, the ugly, and the plain. Tally was dancing with Ser Kyle Condon. When he suddenly approached her, she thought she might faint. He said he remembered seeing her beautiful face at the tourney and felt compelled to ask her to dance. That was four songs ago, and Tally hadn't yet stopped smiling.

Her sister Tansy hadn't been so lucky. She once thought Cley Cerwyn was approaching her. Her face lit up for a moment before she realized he was walking right past her and going straight to Wylla Manderly. Then her expression soured and her words became bitter.

"Wylla Manderly," she spat, "the girl with the garish green hair. She thinks it looks like seaweed, but really it looks like mold."

While Tansy spoke, Drucilla spotted her brother sitting next to Sansa Stark at the high table. She shyly offered him the last of her lemon cakes, and Domeric graciously accepted, but only if she fed it to him herself. A very bold move, Drucilla thought, considering Lord Stark was sitting right next to her. Robb seemed to be more bothered by it than his father, though, for he rolled his eyes and made a snide comment to Brandon Tallhart.

Creighton Redfort was dancing with Wynafryd Manderly. Seeing them together bothered her more than Drucilla cared to admit. She remembered the sweet words he'd said to her at the tourney and felt like a fool for even half believing them. They were probably the same words he'd said to Wynafryd and a hundred other ladies before her. Drucilla cursed them both and looked the other way.

Then something strange caught her eye.

"And she goes around telling everyone her ancestors were merfolk," Tansy went on. "Biggest load of rubbish I've ever heard! The Manderlys aren't descendants of merfolk, … though that would explain why they always smell like fish. Don't you think so, Drucilla?" She turned toward her cousin, who was staring off in another direction. "Drucilla? Drucilla, are you listening to me?"

"Do you see that man?" Drucilla asked, gesturing with her head toward the back of the hall, where the haze was so thick one could barely breathe, where the men — petty lords, knights, and squires mostly — sat on hard, uncovered benches and dined on modest morsels of food. Back there on the benches sat a man who took no food or drink. Drucilla caught only small glimpses of him as the people moved, but every time they parted, there he was, no more than a shadow to her eyes. He had no face that she could see and yet she swore he was watching her.

"I see many men, Drucilla," Tansy said. "The hall is full of them."

"But he's just sitting there … Can't you see him?" Drucilla looked again. The man was still there, sitting and staring.

Tansy looked too. "No, I don't see anyone. Stop trying to scare me."

"I'm not trying to scare you."

"Of course you are! That's all you ever do! Just last week you told me that flayed men walk around the halls at night, and they will come into my room while I sleep and rip the skin off my bones. I couldn't shut my eyes for days after that."

"But flayed men do walk the halls at night. I've seen them."

And the man was still there.

"Stop it!" Tansy cried.

Drucilla peered through the smoke and waited for the crowd to part once more. When it finally did, she gasped. "He's gone!"

Tansy rolled her eyes. "He was never there."

"He was, I swear it!" She frantically searched around the hall with her eyes, rising and falling on the tips of her toes to see over the wall of people. "It was him! I know it was him!"

"Who?" Tansy asked.

Drucilla whipped around. "The boy!" she shrieked. "The boy! The boy with eyes like Father's! He's here, I know it!"

Tansy slowly backed away. "Drucilla, you're scaring me."

The band kept playing. The people kept dancing. And Drucilla kept searching for the boy. Tansy couldn't tell if she was acting or not. Then she saw her start to scratch violently at the skin on her inner arm — at her scars. She knew then that it was no act. For years Drucilla had picked and scratched at those wounds, which was why they had never healed properly. She only did it when she thought about that night … in the forest …

Blood was trickling down Drucilla's arm and speckling the floor with red.

Tansy took another step back. "Drucilla, … stop." She slammed into the pillar behind her, but Drucilla kept scratching and shrieking, and her arm kept bleeding.

"Drucilla, stop it!" Tansy screamed, covering her eyes with her hands.

All of a sudden, the music stopped and the hall was quiet. Out of the corner of her eye, Drucilla saw her father rise up from his chair. His eyes were as cold and hard as she had ever seen. Then she heard a voice in the crowd, a voice she thought had long since gone silent.

_He's supposed to be dead_, Drucilla thought as her body trembled. _Father said he was dead. _

But if he was dead, why was she hearing his voice now? And why was he standing before her, with a wine cup in his hand?


	13. CHAPTER 13

**Chapter 13: Blood and Wine**

All the lords and ladies stopped their loud chatter when Roose Bolton arose from his great chair. Even the dancing couples, amidst their whirls and their twirls, ceased their spinning and stared about with confusion. Young Myranda stood in the back of the hall, among the honorless guests, with a bowl of candied prunes in her hands. She held it out to an old petty lord with a sour smell, whose wrinkly fingers had stopped just short of the bowl. For a moment she thought he had died in mid-reach. "M'lord?" she said, giving the bowl a light shake.

"Who's that there?" the old man asked.

Myranda turned and looked herself. "Who, m'lord?"

Then she saw him. Then everyone saw him, and nobody could look away. Domeric Bolton, with yellow cake crumbs clinging to his lips, sat up in his chair. His betrothed held back a gasp. The boy, dressed in grey wool, had arisen from the benches and approached the dais with a commanding stride. Every noble man and woman stepped out of his way when he came walking by, even men twice his size. And from every person he passed came the same questions: Who was he? From where had he come? He had just appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost, and he walked with a ghost's confidence.

Myranda pulled the bowl away and rushed ahead to get a better view. In her ear, she could hear the old man asking where she was going with his prunes, but Myranda brushed him off. She had to see his face. So she boldly wove her way through the crowd, bumping and pushing as she saw fit, until she at last reached him. She needed only to see his face once to know who he was. She'd recognize those grey eyes anywhere. He was the bastard that everyone whispered about, the one who had hurt the little lady. Everybody thought he was dead, but Myranda knew the truth. Her father had let it slip one night while he was laying her down to bed. He told her not to tell a soul because it would upset Lord Bolton's daughter.

And how the little lady was squirming now, trembling like a pathetic child. It made Myranda smile.

The bastard, he stole a sleeping lord's wine cup off the table, drank it down, and then tossed it over his shoulder. It landed somewhere behind him, with a loud clang. All the nobles chuckled, thinking it a drunk mummer's comedic performance. The bastard took in their laughter and carried on with a smile. "My lords, my ladies ..." He gave a deep bow, earning more laughs and a few curtsies from his audience. "I would like to propose a toast." He paused dramatically, leaving everyone hanging on his silence. "But I suppose I need a cup first, don't I?"

The hall roared with laughter and men slammed their tankards on the table with a steady thwack, thwack, thwack. Drucilla looked at her father. His face was hard and humorless, and his eyes were like steel. The bastard snatched the nearest cup and raised it high into the air. The other lords and ladies did the same, even Domeric Bolton, who was too polite to refuse. Sansa hesitantly followed, her hand shaking ever so slightly. She swallowed the knot in her throat.

"I would like to propose a toast," the bastard announced, "to my lord father."

At those words, smiles faded and cups lowered. Some were too drunk to fully understand the boy's words. To them, everything sounded sweet and merry. One lord even offered up a jolly "Aye, to his lord father!" before taking a drink. Everyone else stood in an uncomfortable silence while the fire crackled and popped and coughed up smoke.

Next, the bastard tilted his cup toward Domeric Bolton. "And to my dear brother on his name day. Happy name day, brother."

More cups fell, including Domeric Bolton's pewter goblet. His jaw fell with it. He looked to his lord father for answers but received none, so he turned to his betrothed for comfort. He reached across the table and gently took her hand in his. Her skin was warm and soft as summer. Sansa might have blushed if she hadn't been so frightened, but she squeezed back with all the strength she possessed. She knew she had to be strong now, for him.

"And finally ..." The bastard spun around to face Drucilla. "... my sweet sister."

Lord Bolton's daughter had that same look on her face, the one he'd seen in the forest when they were struggling and her blood was splattering them both. How fiercely she had glared at him on that night, with the perfect mixture of fear and anger, the same anger which burned deep inside him. He'd waited five years to see that face again. It was was even more beautiful than he remembered. He brought the cup to his lips and gulped down every last drop.

The guards came after that. They took him by the arms and dragged him out of the hall. The bastard didn't even struggle. In fact, he went willingly, with a smile on his face.

Lord Bolton slowly sank back into his chair. When he looked out beyond the dais he found his daughter staring at him with a single question in her eyes. Eventually he would have to answer it, but not now. He made a gesture with his hand and the feast resumed. The serving girls came out with more candied fruits and cheeses, and the boys brought more wine. The band broke into "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," but to that song only the shadows danced.

* * *

After the feast was over, Domeric stormed through the great keep while the night was still and the full moon was high in the sky. The guests had already retired for the evening, returning to their tents and bedchambers. He had personally escorted Sansa Stark back to the guest house and bid her good night with a kiss on the hand. Her septa's stern gaze prevent him from trying anything else, not that he ever would. Now he found himself outside his father's chambers. He didn't even bother knocking.

Lord Bolton was sitting at his desk, head bent, right hand scribbling on parchment with his favorite goose feather quill. To his left sat a single unopened scroll bearing the Lannister sigil.

_When did the Lannisters start taking interest in the North?_ Domeric thought as he glared at the proud lion pressed into the wax seal. _Nothing good can come of this._

"Do you have something to say?" Lord Bolton asked, his voice thin with impatience.

"Is it true?" Domeric asked. "Do I have a brother?"

"Yes, it's true. You have a brother." He stopped to dip his quill in the inkwell and then calmly resumed his letter. "Come tomorrow you'll be free to mourn him as such."

"You're going to have him executed? For what crime — for being a bastard or for embarrassing you in front of your guests?" With that, Domeric had won his father's attention, though he immediately wished he hadn't. All of Domeric's confidence died when his father cast those eerie eyes upon him. They stole all the strength from his words and rendered them powerless. "Please, Father, I beg you to spare his life."

"No," Lord Bolton firmly answered. "I've already showed him a father's mercy — twice in fact, which is more than he deserves. The boy may be my blood, but I owe him nothing. He's a Snow, not a Bolton. My kindness saved him from a swift drowning when he was a babe, and it spared him from death once more after that, but it will not save him today. He knew the risk. He made his choice. And now he will die because of it."

"But what will the Starks think?" Domeric pressed. "Ned Stark, he has a bastard of his own. What will he think when he learns that you so easily killed yours? I remind you, Father, that my marriage to Sansa is still but a contract, a contract which can be broken at any moment. We can't afford to lose face with the Starks now. Or with the gods. No man in this world is more cursed than a kinslayer. You told me that when I was a boy, and I remember it still. Do you?"

Lord Bolton set down his quill. "Yes, I remember." He breathed deeply and focused his thoughts. "Very well then, I will consider releasing the boy, but in return you must do something for me."

At last, Domeric could see his first victory in his sights. "Anything, Father. Just name it."

Lord Bolton didn't smile, but he seemed pleased. "Within the fortnight I will be traveling south to King's Landing. I have business with the queen and expect to be gone for a long while, at least two month's time. While I am absent you will serve as acting lord of the Dreadfort. Consider it a test of your commitment to this house. I'm placing all my faith in you."

"What business do you have in King's Landing?" Domeric asked. He looked once more at the Lannister scroll and wondered. His father was looking at it too, and then he pulled it away and hid it from view.

"If the queen allows it," Lord Bolton went on, "your sister will soon be going to King's Landing to serve as a handmaiden to Her Grace, or to the little princess when she comes of age. It makes no matter who. Drucilla's talents are wasted in the North. Any man can see that. She belongs at court. I'm sure you would agree."

"Yes, she would shine in King's Landing, but Drucilla will never go south. You know that as well as I."

His father smiled — not a natural fatherly smile but a deliberate one that hid a thousand secrets. "She might," he said, "if it will win her a husband. As it happens, I've already entered into negotiations with Tywin Lannister. Drucilla will marry his son Tyrion."

"Tyrion Lannister? The Imp?" Domeric had never seen the halfman with his own eyes, only heard stories about him from others who had. They all said the same thing: he was a filthy drunk who gambled and whored. He couldn't picture his beautiful sister standing beside the dwarf in the sept, between the alters of the Mother and the Father. Of course, he couldn't picture Drucilla in a sept at all. She had no love for the new gods. "Drucilla will take this as an insult. She will never accept it."

"You need not worry about your sister. Drucilla will do her duty, that I know for certain, because she understands the importance of family. So she will marry Tyrion Lannister, unless a smarter match presents itself."

_And I suppose any Lannister is better than none at all_, thought Domeric, but still he feared for his sister's welfare. She would find no safety in King's Landing, with the Lannisters least of all. If Domeric had his way, he would send her to Redfort to live under the protection of Lord Horton. He would come to love her as one of his daughters, and when the time came he would find her a much better match, perhaps even with one of his own sons. Jasper was of marrying age and heir to Redfort. He would treat her well, better than any Lannister.

"Is there anything else?" his lord father asked. Domeric shook his head and showed himself out. Once alone, Lord Bolton reached for the Lannister scroll and broke the seal. "You may come in now, Drucilla." She had been standing outside his chambers for quite some time.

Drucilla entered the room without a word, her hair long and unbound, her forearms tightly bandaged and concealed by the sleeves of her grey bedrobe. She closed the door behind her and claimed the chair in front of her father's desk. He offered her a cup of hippocras, but she politely refused.

"You did well tonight," her father told her, pouring himself a cup. "I'm very proud of you. Soon you will be ready for King's Landing. Everything is going as planned." He handed her the message. "I received Tywin Lannister's response. He's agreed to my terms. You should be pleased."

She carefully read it over. "And I am, truly, but Tyrion Lannister will inherit nothing from his father. Lord Tywin has made that perfectly clear. When we marry, I will be the lady of a pleasure house and the nobles will mock me more than they already do. It seems uneven, this match. Am I worth so little?" She had her queer habits, yes, but Drucilla thought herself worthy of more than a Lannister dwarf. She was young and beautiful and the daughter of one of the most feared lords in the North.

"Patience, Drucilla," her father said. "This game is constantly changing. For a time you may be the lady of a pleasure house and the wife of the halfman, but one day you might find yourself rising much higher. And if you wait long enough and make the proper moves at the proper times, Casterly Rock will soon be yours."

"I never wanted Casterly Rock," Drucilla said as she tossed the parchment aside. Other ladies may have dreamed of being draped in Lannister gold, but not Drucilla. She preferred wolf pelts. "I wanted Winterfell. You promised me Winterfell."

He stopped her with his hand. "You're clinging to a sinking ship, my dear. It's best to let go before it drowns you with it. You will never marry a Stark, and Winterfell will never be yours. Your actions have guaranteed that. It was a grave mistake on your part, but we cannot dwell on it any longer." His face softened. "This match is our best option for the time being. I know you understand."

Drucilla nodded. "I trust you, Father." She went to stand. "May I leave now? The hour is late and I am tired." She waited for her father's nod of approval and then started toward the door.

"You are not angry with me?" he asked just as her hand was nearing the handle. They both knew what he was talking about, and they both knew how this conversation would end. Drucilla almost saw no point in answering, but she did anyway because he was her father.

"I'm sure you had your reasons," she said. "You always do. The gods may curse kinslayers, but I wonder if they would make an exception in this case. What else is a father to do when his son tries to murder his daughter? Perhaps I'll ask them." She opened the door and stepped through. "Good night, Father."

She descended the stairs of the great keep, passing guards and servants who dropped their heads as she went by. It wasn't unusual for them to see the young lady walking about at such a late hour. Most nights she couldn't sleep, so she just ... wandered. On this particular night, she was wandering right into the Torturer's Tower. Two guards stood in front of the main gate, but she knew a secret way inside, a better way. Her lord father had showed it to her when she was young, after the guards had caught her in one of the torture chambers. Lord Bolton realized he couldn't stop his daughter from enjoying her hobbies and saw no reason to try. "A man should be free to indulge in his passions," he had told her as they walked together through the dungeons, "as long as he does so quietly."

Drucilla could be very quiet.

She found the prisoner on one of the upper levels, above the murderers and the rapists, in a small cell with a narrow slit for a window. He was chained to the floor by his wrists and ankles with heavy irons. Drucilla could hear them jangling as she stared at him through the bars on the door. She didn't have the courage to open it.

"I was wondering when you would come visit me," the bastard said. "Took you long enough." He turned his head. "Don't be scared now, little lady. I can't hurt you." He rattled his chains as proof. "See? You're perfectly safe."

Drucilla inserted the key into the lock and gave it a turn. When she entered the cell, the light from her torch filled the room and illuminated the bastard's grinning face. His right eye was puffy and half-closed; the left side of his face was beginning to swell; and his lower lip was cracked and bleeding. Still, he smiled at his sister.

"This brings back memories, doesn't it?" he said. "I wonder, do you still have the scars I gave you?" He could see the bandages poking out from underneath the sleeve on her raised arm. "I bet they look ugly, don't they? Is that why you keep them hidden?" She didn't answer. "I think it is. I think the possibility of any man seeing those naked, hideous arms frightens you to death. Because then he'll ask who made them, and you'll think of me every time." He leaned forward. "Consider that my gift to you, my dear, sweet sister."

"And your last gift, bastard." He sneered at the word. "You die tomorrow."

The bastard slumped against the wall and got comfortable, as comfortable as he could. "That's what you think. But you aren't the first Bolton to visit me tonight, and you won't be the last. I'm not going anywhere."

"We'll see," Drucilla said, and then she passed through the gate and slammed the door behind her.

The bastard watched her go. "We still have a game to finish, little lady!"

She stopped and spun around. "The game's over, bastard! You lost."

Suddenly, the bastard leapt to his feet and lunged for her, his heavy chains rattling with a fury. "Oh no, little lady, our game has just begun! And when it's over you'll be begging me for death!" He threw his head back and laughed a madman's laugh. Drucilla locked the door and fled the tower with his voice echoing in her ears.


	14. CHAPTER 14

**Chapter 14: The Hanging Tree**

At dawn, the flayed men came for Ramsay. Skinner, Garred the Gagger, and Torrhen Two-Fingers with his heavy wooden club, they came without warning and without mercy, bursting through the door and seizing the boy while he still lay asleep.

"Your luck's up, bastard!" shouted Skinner, his wet lips fixed in vicious grin.

Ramsay awoke with a violent jerk, his head foggy with fatigue. He went to rise, but Two-Fingers was in front of him before he could find his feet. The giant swung his mighty club and struck him with a savage blow to the temple. Ramsay's chains jangled and tightened. The wall came rushing fast. He felt the bones in his nose break with a sickening crunch as blood poured from his head and flowed down his cheek. A second stream trickled from his nose and dripped over his lips.

Skinner was laughing while Two-Fingers wiped his weapon clean. The Gagger spoke not a word. Ramsay swallowed the pain with a single gulp and then slowly reclaimed his footing.

Two-Fingers gave a nod, and the Gagger came forward and threw a dirty sack over the boy's head. The fabric was soiled with blood and sweat and stank of death. Ramsay gagged from the smell of it.

The guards dragged him out of his cell by his chains and led him through the tower.

Trapped near blindness, all Ramsay could see was the flame from the Gagger's torch, its shape obscured by the burlap fabric, reduced to a faint red-orange glow. He followed it through the darkness while his body wobbled and his feet stumbled. Ramsay struggled to keep his pace. When he failed — and he failed often — Two-Fingers was there to quicken it again. By the time they reached their destination, he would barely be able to walk.

They brought him outside, where it was cold and grey. The winds gathered their strength and blew with a fierce howl, pressing the burlap tight against Ramsay's face. The mud squished under his boots as he walked. For a long time that sound was all he heard, that and Skinner's voice as he spoke of the great suffering he was about to endure.

"We once let a man soak in a tub of his own shit and piss for days beneath the summer sun," he said. "We covered his face with honey and milk until he was all sweet 'n sticky. A waste of good honey, I say, but the flies like it well enough. After a time, the maggots and the worms slowly devoured the boy while his body rotted." He shrugged. "But Gagger here doesn't much like the smell. And we don't have time for all that, unfortunately."

Ramsay heard the heavy hooves of an approaching horse and the creaks of wooden wheels. Two-Fingers pushed him forward, and he collapsed into the back of a wooden cart. The guards climbed in after him.

During the ride, Skinner was sitting beside him, casually picking his teeth clean with his knife. "Of course, starvation's always an option. If you leave a man in his cell long enough, eventually he'll go mad with hunger and eat himself. But that's not much fun, you see. I once got so bored I forgot about the prisoner entirely. When I finally did return to his cell, he had eaten all the meat off his right arm, what little meat there was. To be fair, he didn't have much meat on him to begin with. And he was dead, of course, by the time I got there." He steadied his blade as the cart rolled over a bump in the road. Ramsay's head bobbed up and down and then fell forward. He didn't have the strength to lift it again, so he just left it to hang. "But he was a poacher, you see, and you're not a poacher, are you? … No, just a harmless little bastard."

Ramsay snarled. Skinner heard it and chuckled. "Do you not like that word, bastard? It's what you are. There's no gettin' around that." He tapped the point of his knife against the burlap, at the spot which covered Ramsay's cheekbone. Another bump and he would've nicked the boy's face, not that he much cared. "Of course, there's always the classic method and my personal favorite: flaying. It's a very delicate art, you know. And a dying one, I'm afraid. The Butcher, he's so sloppy with his knife. You'd think he was carving a pig for supper by the look of his cuts." He glanced down at his own knife, its blade sharp and thin. "You have to be gentle and take your time with it. Leave the rushed work for the headsman, I always say. Flaying is an artist's job."

Rain fell from the sky like tiny shards of ice. "I do not fear the flayed man," Ramsay muttered as his body shook from the cold. He did once, when he was small and weak, when he was just a Snow, but not anymore. A true Bolton would never flinch at the sight of the flayed man. Somehow he just knew that to be true.

Skinner withdrew his blade and leaned in real close. "What's that you said, bastard? You don't fear the flayed man? Oh, but you should. Perhaps you need a proper flaying first. Then you'll understand."

The cart hit another bump. That's when Skinner seized the boy's chains and gave them a sharp tug. Ramsay's whole body heaved to one side. Before he knew it, Skinner had both his wrists trapped and locked in place with his elbow. Next came the sting of Skinner's cold blade against his skin.

"No!" Ramsay yelled, struggling against him. "No! No! No!"

"You say you don't fear the flayed man," Skinner said with a broken, twisted sort of smile. "Well, it's about time you start." He separated one of Ramsay's flailing fingers from the other four. "It's just the little one, bastard. You can make do just fine without it, yes?" He carefully wedged his blade underneath the boy's fingernail, and gave it a twist. The nail snapped open like a clam shell.

A scream threatened to tear his throat open. Ramsay bit down on his bottom lip so hard he drew blood. _I do not fear the flayed man_, he thought as Skinner peeled away the top-most layer of skin from his little finger. Ramsay was glad he couldn't see it. He hid himself away in the darkness and sought shelter in his thoughts while Skinner peeled and peeled layer after layer. _I do not fear the flayed man. I do not fear the flayed man …_

When he was finished, Skinner told Ramsay that he should feel lucky that he was born a bastard. "If you weren't m'lord's blood, I would've taken the whole hand. But I just peeled off a few bits. It'll look nasty once it heals, mind you, but it'll heal in time if you keep it clean." He wiped the blood off his blade. Tiny strips of Ramsay's pale pink flesh were lying between them. One fell through one of the gaps in the wood and landed in the dirt. "Of course, if you should come back, I'll have to take the rest. Orders are orders."

Ramsay held his wounded hand against his chest and was silent. The rain continued its quiet pitter-patter against the burlap sack, and the thunder boomed like a pounding drum.

After a time, the rain finally stopped and the cart came to a halt. The three guards climbed out and leapt to the ground. They pulled Ramsay out last and then proceeded on foot. Ramsay stumbled along after them, his body wrinkled and wet and dripping blood in his tracks.

Soon, Ramsay could hear the river flowing beside him. The morning birds were singing from their trees. And the crows were cawing as they flapped overhead. Further on, he caught the smell of smoke in the air. A great fire was burning nearby. And a woman was screaming and wailing for mercy.

The guards stopped him there and pushed him down to his knees. The grass felt warm and soft as a feather bed. He let his head fall and his shoulders slump forward. By then, the woman had stopped screaming, but he could still hear her voice in his head. _"Mercy!"_ she kept crying as red tears poured down her face. _"Please, have mercy!"_

Now Skinner was beside him. He ripped the sack off his head with one swift motion, leaving Ramsay drowning in the brightness of the day. "Welcome home, bastard!" he said, and Two-Fingers swung his club once more, striking Ramsay in the back of the head. He fell forward with a grunt and collapsed into the soft green grass.

The last thing he saw was the black smoke rising up from the ruins of his home. Then he thought of his poor mother, and what she would say when she saw it. _What a burden I am to her_, Ramsay thought as he surrendered himself to a much-needed rest. _Such an ungrateful child … _

* * *

It was mid-morning when Ramsay finally came to. He opened his eyes and found that he was on his back, and his Reek was hovering over him and staring down with his large, droopy eyes. Two flies were buzzing around his head. One flew over and landed on Ramsay's forehead. Reek swatted it away with his hand.

"Help me up, Reek," Ramsay ordered, and Reek did as his master bid. "You were hiding, weren't you, Reek?" Reek lowered his gaze and started rubbing his neck. "Tell me the truth, Reek. It's a great crime to keep truths from your master. Did you run and hide when the flayed men came?"

"Y-Yes, Master," Reek confessed, his bottom lip quivering. "I ran and hid in the forest. Else they would've killed me."

Ramsay bent down and picked up the burlap sack. Reek yelped and jumped out of his master's way when he saw him approaching. He feared he was about to get punished for being a coward. Instead, Ramsay threw the sack into the fire and watched it turn to ash.

When he turned around, he saw his mother hanging from the tree. She didn't even look like his mother anymore, all black and burnt as she was. Her long hair, which she used to brush and brush until it shone like a starlit night, had burned away, all but a few strands. Her right arm had crumbled to nothing; one leg was missing its foot; and there were two gaping holes where her beautiful brown eyes had once been. The flayed men, they had dragged her out of the cottage by her hair and took her on the ground while she screamed and fought them with what little strength she had. She'd managed get away at one point, Reek said, while the men were taking their turns. She'd made it only a few steps before one of them caught her and drove his longsword through her belly and out her back.

"I'll get her down," Reek said as he limped toward the tree. "We'll give her a proper burial."

"No," Ramsay said, his voice cold and firm. "Leave her."

"But, Master …" Reek gazed at the hanging tree with a deep sadness in his eyes, and he bowed his head in mourning. "Miserable wench, I'll miss your cookin' most of all." Then a strong wind came and sent the miller's widow swinging. The rest of her hair blew away like fallen leaves.

Ramsay turned and walked into the river. The water was freezing, but still he scooped up handfuls of it and splashed it onto his face. All the blood and dirt melted off his body and seeped into the water, fading into the murky greyness of it.

Reek gave a shriek when his bare feet touched the water. "Gods it's cold!" He rubbed his arms to warm them and then proceeded with quick, springy steps. The water rose to his hips. All the little fish swam between his legs as he waded to the spot where his master stood. "So how did it go?" he asked. He saw what little remained of his master's finger and thought the worst.

Despite the pain in his face, Ramsay smiled. "Better than expected, Reek. The Bolton boy knows the truth now. It won't be long before he's seeking us out, I promise you that. Now we just have to be patient, Reek. If we do that, the Dreadfort will soon open its gates to us."

His servant grinned. "And then we'll have our vengeance."

Ramsay nodded. "And then we'll have our vengeance on them all, and I'll take what's rightfully mine."

In the far distance, the Dreadfort's black towers loomed over the mists like a terrifying omen of death. Or a very tempting challenge.


	15. CHAPTER 15

**Chapter 15: Bad Blood**

The bastard was waiting for her across the Weeping Water. If Drucilla squinted her eyes, she swore she could almost see him standing on the misty riverbank, and smiling, always smiling.

That smile had tricked her brother's merciful heart. While the two were breaking their fast in the morning room, Domeric told her that he had visited the bastard in his cell. "And I pitied him, Drucilla," he confessed, because the boy was a bastard born of rape, cursed and forsaken. "The midwives, they used to say that monsters, not children, come from rape, and they should be smothered before they draw their first breaths or else they'll become murderers and rapists themselves. Do you remember that, Drucilla? Bad blood, they called it, and man's punishment from the gods."

Of course, Domeric refused to believe that. _Because Domeric is a fool_, Drucilla thought. She might have said it to him if she thought it would make a difference.

"Drucilla, dear," Lady Dustin said, making her voice light and pleasant as a summer song, "step away from the window before you catch a chill." She beckoned her niece with her hand and motioned toward the empty chair. "Please, come, come. Sit down and join us for tea, won't you? We're having such a very lovely conversation, aren't we, ladies?"

All the ladies voiced their agreement, and Drucilla discreetly rolled her eyes. Lady Bolton had invited the visiting ladies to afternoon tea in the solar. Drucilla hadn't wanted to go, but her lord father insisted on it. Such pastimes were common in King's Landing, he'd said, so if Drucilla wanted to blend in she would have to put on a smile and bear it.

And so she would.

The solar smelled of vanilla and honey, with a hint of lavender from the incense her mother regularly burned. Good for calming the senses, she always said. The walls were covered with fine tapestries of flowers, fair ladies and brave knights, and so many horses; and the floors were strewn with ornate Dornish rugs, all gifts from Lord Bolton to keep his wife happy and, most important of all, quiet. Over the years, this tower had become her sanctuary. It was the only room that got any sun at all, and it overlooked a barren courtyard that Lady Bolton hoped to one day turn into a small garden, if the soil allowed it. She'd tried once before, when she first arrived at the castle, but all the flowers wilted and died before long. Nothing beautiful ever grew in the Dreadfort.

Drucilla quietly sipped her honeyed tea. Her aunt was reciting her favorite poem, "The Maiden and the Mockingbird." It was much too sweet for her taste, the tea and the poem as well. Beside her, Tansy was reaching for another apple cake, her fourth of the day, but her sister swatted her hand before she could get it.

"You've had quite enough, Tansy," Tally said with a decisive nod. Tansy reluctantly agreed.

Sansa Stark was there as well, and so was Alys Karstark and the Manderly sisters, Wylla and Wynafryd. The two girls wore blue silk dresses that rippled like the sea when they moved, and they kept their long hair in loose fishtail braids which rested on their shoulders. Tally wouldn't stop talking about how lovely they were, especially Wynafryd. She was as kind as she was beautiful, Tally said, and that frustrated Drucilla to no end.

Wynafryd smiled at Sansa Stark. It was a perfect and effortless smile that made her whole face light up. And she had a voice to match. "You sang beautifully last night, Lady Sansa." Sansa blushed and thanked her. "My sister and I, we could still hear your voice as we lay down to sleep. Couldn't we, sister?" Wylla nodded. "I bet you were even singing in our dreams. What was it called, that song?"

"Two Hearts That Beat as One," Sansa answered. It was a popular love song in Westeros.

Wylla nodded while stirring her tea. "Yes, yes, that sounds right. Such a beautiful song." She tapped the spoon against the rim three times and then set it aside. "Lady Drucilla, it's a shame you didn't treat us with a song of your own. I hear you have a very_ unique_ voice." She turned to her sister. "How did they describe it? Like a cat yowling in heat, was it?"

Wynafryd dismissed her sister's comment. "Not everyone can be blessed with the gift of song, sister. I myself can barely carry a tune. Even my own grandfather has banned me from singing in his halls. He said to me, 'Wynnie, darling, you are good at many things, but singing is not one of them. Best leave that to the bards.'" She chuckled quietly to herself. The other ladies laughed too, and Sansa giggled into her hand.

"I should like to hear you sing," Sansa said when everyone had settled down. "I bet you're just being modest."

Wynafryd put her hand to her heart. "Oh I wish I was, sweet girl. But the dogs would start barking if I tried singing now, and that would ruin this wonderful afternoon." She tipped her head to Lady Bolton, and the older woman graciously returned the gesture. Drucilla thought it was all a bit much.

The afternoon carried on pleasantly. The servants came and went with fresh fruit and cakes and kept the teacups full. The women told stories, read poetry, and gossiped about the maidens' marriage prospects. Tally Ryswell wholeheartedly expressed her desire to wed Benfred Tallhart, but that was a secret to no one. She was always whispering about him when she thought nobody was listening. As for Tansy, she desperately desired to marry Cley Cerwyn from the moment she saw him at the tourney, but when asked by Lady Dustin, she said that she would be happy with any match made by Lord Bolton. In the end, both girls would have to settle for whatever match their uncle-by-law negotiated for them.

And Drucilla would have to settle for her own match. As she traced her finger over the rim of her half-empty cup, she overheard Sansa asking Wynafryd Manderly about Ser Creighton Redfort. "Do you think he will ask for your hand?" she asked. Drucilla heard nothing else after that. She sat on the edge of her chair, waiting for Wynafryd's answer, but her aunt spoke before she could get it.

"So, Drucilla," Lady Dustin announced as she started on her third cup of tea, "your mother tells me that you may soon be heading to King's Landing. How very exciting." At that, all the ladies stopped their conversations and turned a curious ear. Her aunt was smiling, so obviously pleased with herself. Drucilla picked up her cup and brought it to her lips. In that moment, she wished it was wine. "You'll be serving as one of the queen's handmaidens," her aunt went on, "and before long you'll have herself a little Lannister husband. You must be very proud."

Little Lannister. How clever her aunt was.

"What?" Tally said, getting all flustered. "Drucilla's going to King's Landing? And marrying a Lannister?" _A beautiful golden-haired Lannister_, Tally thought, getting swept up by the splendor of it all. She could think of nothing better than to live in a large keep overlooking the Sunset Sea. All her dresses would be made of silk and she would own fine jewels of every color. Drucilla didn't deserve such a life, nor would she ever fully appreciate it.

Lady Dustin nodded. "Yes, Drucilla is set to marry Lord Tyrion."

"Lord Tyrion?" Tally paused. In her silence, Wylla Manderly was snickering. "The Imp?"

The teacup came down so hard it cracked in two. Tally yelped into her hands and Tansy flinched. Sansa Stark gasped and Wylla Manderly choked on her laughter while her older sister looked down with discomfort. Drucilla's lips tightened into a hard, thin line.

"Yes," she said as her dish puddled with golden brown tea. She still clenched the broken cup in her hands. "Yes, I am marrying Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, and I should be proud to do so." She threw a glare at Tally. "You see, dear cousin, I'd rather marry the Imp than some no-name son from some petty house that nobody has ever heard of!" She stood up and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Her cup came apart and lay in pieces upon her plate.

Moments later, Tally reached a quivering hand toward her own cup. "Well that seemed uncalled for."

* * *

From the window of her bedchamber, Drucilla had a nearly perfect view of the training yard. There, her brother and some of the young lords were practicing their swordplay under the guidance of Steelshanks Walton. Robb Stark was among them, armored and unafraid but yet untested. He stood among the spectators and watched Domeric Bolton and Jarron Umber circle each other with blunted swords. Creighton Redfort was calling out both encouragements and insults to his dear friend as Domeric struggled against the older man, who was twice his size and struck twice as hard.

"Quit dancing around, little lady!" Creighton shouted. "Are you at a ball? Swing your sword, you fool! Now! _Now!_ Why are you afraid to strike?" He threw his hands up in defeat. "Gods be good, Domeric Bolton has forgotten how to fight."

Domeric craned his head around and yelled something back, but his voice became muffled when Jarron dealt an unexpected blow. Domeric managed to block the blade, but the force of it knocked him off balance and he fell onto his back. Creighton fell over too, from laughing so much. Drucilla suppressed a laugh of her own. Jarron Umber bent over to offer his opponent a helping hand. Steelshanks shook his head and called for the next match-up.

"Who wants to go? Hmm? Robb, you're fresh. How 'bout you have a go? And the Karstark boy, whichever you are. Come on, let's see what you've got."

Domeric gathered himself and dropped his sword into the rack. Robb was still searching for a sword to use, as if it was the most important decision of his life. Domeric said something to the younger boy and then pointed toward one of the swords. Robb nodded and claimed it for his own. Domeric walked over to Creighton and punched him on the shoulder. His friend grinned and seemed about to say something, but then he stopped and looked up suddenly, as if he felt eyes upon him.

Drucilla gasped and ducked out of view before he could spot her. _He didn't see me_, she thought as she pressed her back flat against the wall. _Gods I hope he didn't see me._ Then she pushed off and proceeded on.

Much to her surprise, Alys Karstark was standing outside her bedchamber. Her hand was positioned in a way to suggest that she was just about to knock, but she backed away when Drucilla opened the door. She didn't speak, only stared with a shy, close-lipped smile on her face. If not for her teeth, Drucilla thought, Alys Karstark might have been beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than Sansa Stark. She was taller than most girls her age, and not in a brutish sort of way, and her eyes were a striking shade of blueish grey. But the gap in her teeth was neither small nor charming. That's why Daryn always told her not to smile with teeth.

"Do you want to hear something terrible?" Alys asked, keeping her voice low. Drucilla didn't really care to hear, but she said yes anyway. "I wished for Daryn to fall from his horse the other day. Honestly, I hoped it would kill him. Isn't that horrible of me, to wish such a cruel fate upon someone I hardly know? We've only met once before now. He said I wasn't pretty enough to be his bride. I knew then that I hated him and didn't want to marry him. Father said I didn't have a choice. We're waiting until I've flowered to marry. That will be the worst day of my life, I think."

"Why are you telling me this?" Drucilla asked. "Are you trying to sympathize with me? Save it. I don't need your pity."

"Oh, but I don't pity you," Alys said. "I rather admire you, actually. I think you would say to Daryn every word I've ever thought. He says such horrible things about you, so many lies … about what happened to your sister."

"I don't care what Daryn Hornwood says," Drucilla interrupted. "He's an arrogant fool, nothing more."

"Well, he'll soon be my husband. As for me, I'd like us to be friends one day, if that's all right." She took a step back. "I must go now. Daryn is traveling back to Hornwood today. Father says I have to see him off." She stopped in mid-turn and spoke over her shoulder. "By the way, there are worse matches than Tyrion Lannister. Far worse. You should feel no shame if you do end up marrying him. But then again, things change and people die every day, don't they?" With that, Alys Karstark continued down the hall and disappeared around the corner.

* * *

Drucilla crossed the barren courtyard and entered the godswood. The wind was tugging at her black cloak and tearing through her tight knot of brown hair. She had the lost the protection of her hood shortly after she stepped outside and made no effort to lift it again. Beyond the wood, Drucilla could hear the steady clang of steel on steel. It sounded like a good fight, even matched. She would have liked to have seen it for herself, but women weren't typically welcome in the training yard. Instead, Drucilla knelt before the heart tree and whispered a quiet prayer. Above her, the red leaves rustled and the white branches stirred. She knew then that the gods were listening.

"I wonder, is it wrong to pray for someone's death?"

Drucilla's eyes snapped open and her head turned toward the sound. Robb Stark was standing beside her, his eyes fixed on the tree's solemn face. He had removed his armor, but the shine of sweat remained on his brow.

"Why do you ask?" Drucilla replied. It was as if he had read her thoughts.

He shrugged. "I don't know. The question just came to me suddenly. To be honest, I don't know why I came in here at all. I was on my way to the guest house when something compelled me to stop — a whisper in the wind I suppose it was. Then I saw the godswood." He looked around. "This is nothing like the godswood in Winterfell. This one, it feels darker and colder, somehow, more wild. It makes me a little uncomfortable."

"You're a Stark in the Dreadfort. How else should you feel? In the past, this is where Starks came to die."

Robb shivered, and not from the cold. "Yes. Yes, that explains it then." A second question entered his mind — about _that room_ — but he didn't have the heart to ask it, not while she was staring at him. Instead, Robb politely bowed his head and took his leave. "Sorry to disturb you, my lady."

Drucilla watched him go. Then she turned around and finished her prayer.

* * *

From the solar, Lady Dustin watched Drucilla leave the godswood. _Such an intriguing girl._ Of course Lady Dustin had always thought so, even when the girl was very young. The news of Drucilla's upcoming departure to King's Landing had come as a great shock to her aunt, for she had planned to bring the child back with her to Barrowton. She had discussed this with her sister several times over the course of the year. Perhaps her brother-by-law had gotten his hands on one of her letters. It would certainly explain the perfection of his timing.

Lady Dustin stepped away from the window. "The bastard is still alive. Tell me, sister, how did that come to happen?"

"How? Only the gods know for certain." Lady Bolton reached for the tea kettle and went to pour herself another cup. Empty, without a single drop left. She frowned and set the kettle aside. Then she called for wine to quench her thirst. "Perhaps my husband was suddenly overcome with fatherly affection."

"And perhaps we really do live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant." Lady Dustin scoffed. "Regardless of why he did it, it was a great mistake to let him go. Did you see that performance he put on last night? That boy knew exactly what he was doing. He isn't through with your family. He'll be back before you know it. And when he comes back, your children will be in danger. My niece and my nephew will be in danger."

"What's your point, sister? Make it while I'm still sober enough to listen."

Lady Dustin leaned over and placed both hands on the table. "Say the word, and I could have a knife at the boy's throat before sundown. Nobody will know. And your children will be safe."

A servant came with a flask of wine. Lady Bolton accepted the flask and then immediately sent the servant away. She spoke again only after the door had closed. "So now we're plotting to murder bastards in their sleep? Gods, Barbrey, you should be the Bolton." Laughing, she went to take a drink. Her sister slapped the cup out of her hands before a single drop of wine touched her lips. The vessel clattered to the floor and spat wine all over the rug.

Lady Bolton calmly wiped away the wine from the bodice of her dress. "Dear sister, it seems widowhood has made you paranoid. Perhaps you should return to Barrowton and rest."

This time, her hand made direct contact with her sister's face. When it was over, Lady Dustin's hand stung half as much as her sister's reddening cheek. "Say what you want about me, but I know that a mother who isn't ready to kill for her children is no mother at all. So what does that make you? Just a pathetic drunk who sits in her tower and wastes her life away. You make me ashamed to call you my sister." She started toward the door.

"Wh-Where are you going?" Lady Bolton asked in a weak voice.

"Back to Barrowton. I don't know why I came at all, with all these Starks lurking about. If you need me, sister, send a raven." And she slammed the door so hard the table shook.


	16. CHAPTER 16

**Chapter 16: Parting Words**

Today, the Dreadfort felt like a graveyard.

While Drucilla took her morning ride along the Weeping Water, she remembered how it had looked during her brother's tourney, with all the pavilions raised and emblazoned banners of all colors whipping back and forth in the wind. It was like something out of the songs, full of action, drama, and romance. What remained now was but a shadow of that day. Beside the river, the tilt and counter tilt were still standing, but the builders had already started tearing down the gallery, plank by plank. Drucilla walked up and down the empty tilt yard as they worked. She could still hear the thunderous hooves of charging horses, the cracking and smashing of wood on steel, and the applause … most of all the applause. In the dirt she found a piece of splintered wood from one of the lances, and she thought of how Benfred Tallhart's face had smashed into the ground and came up a bloody, broken mess. It was a moment she would never forget. And neither would he.

The Tallharts were among the first of the noble families to leave, along with the Hornwoods, the Karstarks, and the Umbers. Drucilla was glad to see the Umbers go, after the fit the Greatjon had thrown at supper the night before their departure.

Drucilla was spooning warm barley stew into her mouth when she heard the Greatjon's deep voice break through the usual table chatter. Suddenly he climbed to his feet, this enormous and powerful giant of a man, with a pewter tankard overflowing with ale clutched in his hand. Drucilla might've mistook it for a greatsword from the way he swung it around.

Swaying and staggering in a drunken haze, he demanded that his sister's remains be returned to the Last Hearth so that she could be buried with the rest of her family. It was the same demand he'd been making for years. And again, Lord Bolton refused him. He said Marilynn Umber was a Bolton by marriage and would remain in the Dreadfort crypts where she belonged.

Cursing, the Greatjon threw down his tankard and kicked over the table, sending cups, flagons, and trenchers bouncing, soups, salads, meat, and mead spilling and splashing on the floor. His sons jumped up to join him, Jarron staggering to his feet. For a moment, Drucilla thought there was about to be a brawl in the great hall. The Greatjon accused Lord Bolton of lying about his sister's death, declared it loudly for all to hear, and then he cursed the Bolton house and all its sons and daughters and shouldered his way out of the great hall. The Smalljon smashed his tankard on the floor and followed him out. His brothers weren't far behind.

The following morning, Drucilla was the only Bolton there to see the Umbers off. She took it upon herself to bid them farewell and safe journey on her lord father's behalf.

The Greatjon grumbled back his thanks and apologized for his ungentlemanly behavior. "A man ought not raise his voice in the presence of women and children," he said in a gruff voice. "Begging your pardons, my lady." Then he seized the reins firmly in his hands and rode through the open gate.

His eldest sons left too, astride strong-bodied brown trotters, but Jarron stayed behind long enough to say goodbye. He wore a heavy bearskin cloak upon his broad, sturdy shoulders, over a wool doublet and leather jerkin. He kept his blond hair short and his beard neatly trimmed. His face was long, with a strong jaw that had likely taken a few punches from his brothers.

"My family thanks you for your hospitality, my lady," he said in a voice much to gentle to belong to an Umber, but it was deep as a drum, with a slight rasp. It was the kind of voice that commanded attention despite its infrequent use. As soon as Drucilla heard it, no other sound could sway her from him, and yet he offered nothing more. Jarron Umber left her with a courteous dip of his head and then galloped off to join his family.

As she watched him go, Drucilla remembered what Tansy had said at the tourney. _Jarron Umber never smiles and he seldom speaks, but he has kind eyes. Kind eyes mean a kind soul, and kind souls make for kind husbands. _Drucilla stepped back and retreated from the yard. _Perhaps Tansy was right._

She received no such kindness from Robb Stark when he left.

On that day, the morning mists were thicker than usual, heavy and dark, turning the outside into a world of shadows. It was cold too, colder than summer ever ought to be. Domeric wore his warmest furs and carried a lantern to light his way. Lord Bolton had one too, and he walked with his daughter on his arm.

"Has there ever been a more dreary day?" Sansa Stark asked with a sad smile. When she sighed, she could see the fog of her own breath in the air. Her blue eyes were red and puffy and burning with the threat of fresh tears. She kept her face hidden deep inside the darkness of her grey hood, just in case she started crying again. It would shame her to let Domeric see her so distraught. She didn't want him to remember her that way. "It's as if the gods can sense my sorrow."

"It's still early," Domeric replied in a comforting way. "Just wait, the rising sun will burn this all away. Then you'll see nothing but blue, clear skies."

Sansa could feel the heat rising to her frozen cheeks. She could also feel her lord father's watchful eyes upon her. She snuck a quick glance and caught him peering down at her from his horse, though he immediately looked away when she did. Again, she sighed. This was far from the romantic farewell she'd dreamt about, where Domeric Bolton suddenly took her in his powerful arms and kissed her passionately. Now the most she could hope for was an innocent peck on the top of her hand.

"Will you write me?" she asked with a hopeful look in her eye.

"Of course, sweet lady," Domeric answered, and then he took her hand and helped her into the saddle. Just as she went to pull her hand back, Domeric reclaimed it and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"The next time we see each other," he said, looking deeply into her eyes, "we will be standing in the godswood before the heart tree, and you will become my wife and I your husband."

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. "And … does that please you?"

Domeric smiled. "Very much." He kissed her hand and released it. "Farewell, my lady."

Watching them together, Robb Stark muttered something under his breath and shifted in his saddle. Drucilla didn't leave the warmth of her father's side, but her eyes were fixed on the Stark boy. Again, he shifted his weight. Again, he muttered, his expression lost in the mists. Deep down, Drucilla was hoping for a kind farewell, or at the very least a friendly glance. She received neither. He had been avoiding her for days, ever since they had spoken briefly in the godswood. Something was wrong. Something had changed.

She had tried to ask him about it before. The afternoon before he left, she had found him in the library tower, standing among the dusty shelves. A small oil lantern sat on the shelf in front of him. His head was bent over a very old book. When Drucilla called his name, the book slipped out of his hands and landed on the floor with a dull thwack. A cloud of dust came up and lingered in the air until he fanned it away.

"S-Sorry," he stammered, "I did not see you, my lady." He knelt down to retrieve the book, fumbled with it, and then quickly slid it back into place.

Drucilla watched him curiously from behind the bookshelf. "What were you reading?" she asked, tilting her head to one side. "It must have been quite the book to consume your attention so."

"No, it was nothing," he answered. "Just some old tome. Excuse me, my lady, I have to get back." He hurried past her, leaving the lantern sitting on the shelf.

Drucilla followed him with her eyes. _Now that is a rare sight_, she thought with a faint smile on her lips. _The proud and noble Starks are not easily unnerved, yet he drew up his skirt and fled out of here like a panicked maid._ She walked over to the bookshelf and seized the lantern. As she was bringing it around, the light caught a book spine that was sticking out further than the others. It was the book that Robb had been reading. Drucilla leaned forward and studied the title. "_The Reign of Royce Redarm_." A very old book, indeed, about King Royce IV, commonly known as Royce Redarm, for he liked to tear out the entrails of his prisoners with his bare hands. He was most famous for taking and burning Winterfell, back when the two houses were constantly at war with each other. The book had been read to her when she was young. Hilda found it too shocking for a child, but Drucilla insisted on knowing her family's complete history — or it's legacy, as she'd called it. It certainly wasn't a book for any Stark to read.

Nevertheless, Drucilla took it and opened it. Inside she found graphic depictions of flayed Stark men on torture racks, their skins hanging on the walls behind them. _No wonder Robb Stark ran out of here like he did._ She closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

When she turned around, Robb was standing behind her. He had a distant look in his blue Tully eyes, a strange cloudiness, and his face was pale and strained. Drucilla knew that face. She'd seen it on her brother once, after they'd found the skinless man in the dungeons. It was the face of a man tortured by terrible nightmares — a man who'd heard the whispers in the dark — who'd seen the flayed man. She'd seen him too. In her dreams, Drucilla saw the flayed man every night. Sometimes she would wake to find him standing in her bedchamber, all pink and bloody, with the blackest eyes she'd ever seen. He shared with her all his dark secrets, the kinds of things only the dead knew.

"That chamber," Robb said in a hoarse voice, "you know the one I mean, … does it exist?"

"I don't know," she replied. "Maybe. If it does, I've never seen it."

She saw him swallow deeply. Her answer had not comforted him. "Back in Winterfell, Old Nan would tell us stories about the Dreadfort, about how so many of our ancestors suffered and died here … and how their skins are hanging on some wall in a chamber that nobody has ever seen. Honestly, I never really believed her. Why should I have? Nan loves her stories, the same as you, and she can weave them out of thin air. I've seen her do it plenty of times." He smiled for a moment, remembering, and then his face fell. "But coming here, _being here_ … I can't help but feel … unwanted and unsafe." His eyes narrowed and his tone darkened. This wasn't the Robb she was used to. He was speaking in the voice of his ancestors. "And I can't help but wonder if I'd be making a grave mistake to trust you."

All of a sudden the lantern felt unbearably heavy in her hand. How easy it would have been to let it slip from her fingers and burn the entire library to the ground, along with all her hopes of ever marrying a Stark and claiming Winterfell for her own.

Remembering Robb Stark's words, Drucilla clung tighter to her father's arm. He looked down at her briefly, studying her expression, and then returned his attention to the departing guests. He need not comfort her. His presence alone accomplished that. This is where Drucilla belonged, here at the Dreadfort, safe at her father's side. She would rather die than leave it.

Sansa was glaring at her brother. He was embarrassing her in front of her future husband and his family. "Robb," she pushed, "say goodbye to Lady Drucilla."

Robb bowed his head and said the words, just the words. Then he pulled on the reins, wheeled his ambler around, and took off through the gate. A handful of sworn swords followed him out. The young wolf fled the Dreadfort with his tale between his legs.

And five days later, the memory of his departure still filled her heart with anger. On this day, a murky mid-afternoon, Drucilla found herself sitting alone in the courtyard with a small embroidery hoop in her left hand and a threaded needle in her right. Her lord father had just left the Dreadfort that morning, before the sun had fully risen. The entire household had been there to see him off, Lady Bolton still dressed in her bedrobes, but he said no personal goodbyes to any of them. He never did. He galloped across the long bridge with Steelshanks Walton, his captain and most trusted ally, and two dozen household knights, sworn swords, and freeriders.

Drucilla sighed and stared up at the grey sky. Her father was gone and now her brother was acting lord of the Dreadfort. He couldn't be trusted with such a great responsibility. He was still too green and the Dreadfort was all but foreign to him. He didn't know the land or its people. He didn't understand the dangers, not like Drucilla did. But he would, soon. The flayed man had told her so.

"Another flayed man?" said Creighton Redfort as he hovered over her shoulder. She sensed his presence before she saw him peeking out of the corner of her eye. He was standing behind her, his body bent at an angle, with his head positioned directly above the crook of her neck. If she turned at the wrong moment, his long, pointed nose might have poked her eye out. "Don't you get tired of stitching the same pattern?" he asked.

Drucilla clutched the hoop tightly against her chest and glared at him. "And why would I?" she threw back, leaning away from him. The young Valeman straightened himself, walked around the bench, and boldly claimed the spot next to her, without the lady's invitation.

"Oh, I meant no offense, my lady," he continued, making himself comfortable. "It's just, Domeric told me that you embroider the flayed man on all of your clothes. Only the flayed man and nothing else."

"Oh, has he now? How very considerate of him, to educate you on my style of dress. Surely then my brother has also told you that the flayed man makes up my family's coat of arms. Now I don't know how they do it in the Vale, but in the North it's quite common for lords and ladies to wear their house's arms. I see you wearing yours right now. A red castle on a field of white, within a red embattled border." Red on white. Drucilla remembered the omen from the gods, how the red leaf of the heart tree had stood out so brilliantly in the snow. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. "The Lannisters have their lions. The Starks have their direwolves. The Tyrells wear their roses, the Baratheons their stags, and the Tullys their trouts. Why should I not wear the flayed man just as proudly?"

Creighton nodded. "Aptly put, my lady. You make a fair point."

Drucilla rested the hoop upon her lap and looked at the Valeman. He was wearing his traveling cloak, over warm wool and bleached leather. "I hear you're leaving today," she said.

"Yes," he replied, "to Blackburrow first, to repay the kind man who let me borrow his armor and horse for the tourney. My squire will want his cut as well and likely gamble it away at some tavern. The rest of my winnings will secure my safe passage home, I hope, aboard a merchant's ship or whatever ship I can find at the harbor. It matters not. I can make do with just about anything." He stood and took three short strides before turning. "If it would please you, my lady, may I write you?"

His question made her brow wrinkle. "Write me? But why?"

"Because I'd like to. Do I need another reason?"

"No," Drucilla answered, "but did you not also promise Wynafryd Manderly that you would write her?" She had overheard Sansa Stark talking about it with her cousins at supper one evening. "Have you really the time for both of us?" She stood herself, leaving her hoop and needle on the bench, and turned to leave. Creighton caught up with her in just five quick steps.

"Well seven hells, I do believe my lady is jealous."

She whipped around. "I am not jealous! I am merely exposing you for what you really are: a liar and a manipulator of women. Tell me, ser, how many ladies did you approach at my brother's tourney? Hmm? Go on, tell me. How many before? How many after? Did you give them all that same, pathetic speech that you probably stole from some penniless poet on the road?"

His jaw dropped. "That is harsh, my lady, and completely unfair. I'm a newly anointed knight. It was my first tourney, and I wanted the full experience. Surely, you can't blame me for being eager."

"So that's what I was to you? An experience?"

He cringed slightly. "Well, no. It sounds horrible when you put it that way."

"So how else should I put it?" Drucilla charged him slowly, forcing his immediate retreat, and started driving him toward the western wall. "_One smile from you, and I think I could defeat every man here. _What a line that was!" Her right hand shot out and pushed him backwards. "Did you use that one on all the maidens? Did it make them blush and smile?" She shoved him again, nearly stealing his footing.

"Yes," he answered as he absorbed the blows of her iron-tipped fingers, "I used that line on a few others, but I only meant it with you, sweet lady."

"I am not your sweet lady!" she growled, and then she pushed him back again and again until he slammed into the wall and could go no further.

"Okay!" he said. "Okay, look, before you put your hands around my throat and attempt to bash my head against this wall here, please just let me explain." He paused and took a deep breath. Drucilla took one too. "Yes, I told Wynafryd Manderly that I would write her. Yes, I asked several maidens for their favors at your brother's tourney. Yes, that was rude of me and I'm sorry that I upset you. Truly, I am. However, _however_, before you get too angry, you must remember this: I asked you first. I asked you first, before all others, and you said no."

Drucilla's jaw dropped. Creighton Redfort left the courtyard after that. Drucilla let him go and watched him walk away. Then she whispered something into the wind.

* * *

Creighton quickly made his way to the East Gate, where his squire was busy saddling the horses and packing for the journey home. Domeric Bolton was there too, shouting commands to all the busy servants. Creighton figured he just liked to hear the sound of his own voice, all deep and lord-like now that his father had named him castellan of the Dreadfort.

"What kept you?" Domeric asked with a smile on his face. When Creighton got close enough, he could see the faintest shadow of a black beard. "You had planned to leave an hour ago, if you remember."

"I remember well," Creighton said. "I was just saying goodbye to your sister. It took longer than expected. And hurt more." Just saying the words made his chest ache. "She is traveling to King's Landing, you said? And your father plans to wed her to Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. What a cursed match that will turn out to be."

Domeric nodded. "Hard to say who's on the losing end of that deal. I love my sister, truly, but she can be quite difficult at times."

"Really? I haven't noticed."

Domeric chuckled. "I'm going to miss you. Are you sure you cannot stay just a few days longer? This castle will be so dull without you. I may go mad with only my sister for company."

"Would that I could, my friend, but I'm needed in the Vale. Before I left Redfort, Father told me that he intends to send me to the Eyrie to serve Lady Lysa and that squalling child of hers. She requested me specifically, you see, after she found out she couldn't have Jasper in her household guard. Father calls it a great honor. All the best knights in the Vale serve at the Eyrie. I suppose it was only a matter of time."

"And what of Cassandra?" Domeric asked. He swore that he would never speak her name again, for he knew it was disrespectful to Sansa Stark, but he couldn't help himself. He needed to know.

"Cassandra is currently in Strongsong visiting Grandfather. She couldn't bear to stay in Redfort after you left. I'm sure you understand why. But she's doing well, last I heard. She's happy. Father is working fast to find her a new match. Several houses have shown interest so far, including the Tyrells. Lord Mace's third son, Loras, is of marrying age."

"The Knight of the Flowers." Domeric knew him only by name and reputation. He had once hoped to meet him in the lists and ride against him. "It's a smart match."

Creighton nodded. "Father will accept it, and Cassandra will hate him for it."

"Aye, she will." Domeric might have tried to laugh if he thought it would ease his pain. "You will tell her I'm sorry, won't you? I never meant for this to happen."

"She understands, Domeric." Then he stepped back and reached into his saddle bag. "Cassandra meant for you to have this. She told me to bring it to you, as her gift to you on your name day. Her last gift to you, I suppose." He handed Domeric a small book bound in red leather. "She remembered that it was your favorite and thought you should have it. Maester Rowan will be furious when he finds out she took it."

Domeric lowered the book to his side and held it there. "Thank her for me."

"I will." The two looked at each other awkwardly. The silence between them felt strange and uncomfortable. Creighton reached back and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, this is goodbye, I suppose. We may not see each other again, not for a long while. By then you'll be a married man, I suspect. Just don't get all fat on me. You'll never get yourself on a horse after that. They'll have to carry you around like Lord Lamprey."

"Gods, never!"

Laughing, the two shared a fierce embrace and then parted ways. Creighton climbed onto his saddle, called out one last farewell to his friend, and spotted the fair Drucilla Bolton standing beneath a small archway with the wildness of the godswood behind her. She acted like she wasn't watching, but he knew she was. Creighton chuckled quietly to himself and then trotted away, vanishing among the distant hills.


	17. CHAPTER 17

**Chapter 17: Leeches**

That evening Domeric retired early to his chambers and spent the night in contemplative solitude. No visitors. No disturbances. The guards saw to that. There he took his supper alone, a modest meal of beef-and-barely stew served with fresh bread, cheese, and wine, and he ate but little.

"Is there something wrong with the food, m'lord?" asked the servant when she came to clear the table. "Not at all," answered Domeric with a tired smile. "I'm just not very hungry." Food had no taste when his mind was so erratically occupied with other thoughts. Small wonder why his lord father never seemed to enjoy his meals, with all his plotting, leeching, and self-obsessing.

Domeric walked across the room and drew open the tall, narrow windows, allowing the cold night air to fill the chamber. The wind swirled around him. The fire rippled and crackled. Outside, the wolves were singing beneath the half moon. Domeric closed his eyes and breathed it all in. There was nothing like a Northern summer night.

In the distance loomed the Torturer's Tower. Domeric remembered how small and frail the bastard Ramsay Snow had looked inside his cell, held down by heavy irons, bruised and bleeding. And yet he spoke no ill of the Boltons.

"I brought this upon m'self," he'd said. "Mother warned me not to seek you out. Just be glad you're still alive, she said. A bastard like me can't hope for much else in this world." He hung his head. His black greasy hair was matted with dried blood. "I knew the risk well enough, but I just couldn't help m'self. There's an emptiness inside of me — a big gaping hole — but I wouldn't expect you to understand that, m'lord. I just wanted to see my brother, my true brother."

But Domeric did understand, better than he cared to admit. That's why he couldn't get the bastard out of his head.

_Don't do it_, whispered the voice in his head; then he heard those words again, this time with his own ears.

Domeric turned and saw the dark silhouette of his younger sister in the doorway. Not even a great brute like Horace Heartclever could prevent Drucilla from entering if she wished it. She walked in and silently closed the door behind her. "I know what you're about to do," she said as she stepped into the candlelight. She was wearing a long grey robe over her nightdress, and her brown hair was woven into a loose braid. When the light caught her eyes, it gave them a eerie sheen that made Domeric shiver.

She was glaring right through him.

"Don't do it, Domeric," she said. "Father told you not to seek him out. He forbade it."

"I know what he said, Drucilla," Domeric answered, "but he is our brother, our flesh and blood. Were you not just lecturing me on the importance of family? He is our family, a Bolton in all but name. We cannot just abandon him."

"He's not our brother. He's a bastard!" The force of her words knocked her off balance, her bony legs wobbling beneath her. She caught herself on the edge of the table and gave her head a gentle shake. When she spoke again, her voice was weak and desperate. "We don't owe him anything, Domeric. He's lucky to even be alive. You've showed him mercy when he deserved none. Whatever debt you think you owe him has been repaid, I promise you. Now let it go. Let it end and forget about him. _Please, Domeric._"

Domeric could see her arms trembling, her breathing labored. Something was wrong.

"Drucilla, are you all right?" He approached her and offered her his hand, but she slapped it away and retreated from him.

"Promise me you won't seek him out," she said with a madness in her eyes. "Promise me, Domeric."

He frowned. "You know I can't make that promise."

The flagon exploded when it hit the opposite wall, leaving the stone awash with red.

"Curse your honor, Domeric!" Drucilla shouted, her hands bundled into tight fists. "You are a fool if you don't see what he's doing. He wants you to pity him. He wants you to trust him and bring him inside our walls. He'll take your bread and salt and then he'll slit both our throats and burn our house to the ground!" Her eyes were hollow and sunken and full of hate. "You don't know him, Domeric. You don't know what he's done."

Domeric sighed. "Yes, I do, Drucilla. I know what he did to you." Everyone knew. Everyone whispered about it. And about those scars, the ones she tried to hide. Everyone knew. "He told me himself."

Her hand was on her opposite forearm, rubbing, scratching at the skin beneath. "He … What did he tell you?"

"He said it was a mistake, and he's sorry." He reached for her again, overcome with brotherly affection. This time she pushed him away with all the strength she possessed. Domeric fell back against the table and felt a sharp pain in his side. His sister was stronger than she looked. "He wants to apologize to you, Drucilla."

She threw her head back and gave a mocking laugh. "Oh, I bet he does. How clever he is to say that. And I bet you ate it all up, too, because you are such a good judge of character."

"He's not innocent, Drucilla," Domeric admitted. He'd heard the stories just like everyone else. "But neither are you. You've done things too, horrible things—"

"They were justified, those things."

"Were they?" His eyes were hard and his voice cold. "You held a serving girl down while she slept and sewed her lips shut. You cut up another girl's face and left her terribly scarred. Because of you, one of our stableboys no longer has a hand. Tell me, what crimes did they commit to deserve such cruel punishments?"

Drucilla snarled like a captured animal. "You have no right to judge me! You weren't here."

"You're right, I wasn't."

She nodded. "And it was a mistake for you to return." She took a step back, staggering. Domeric didn't follow. She was beyond his reach now. "Go to him and be dead to me, brother. In my eyes, you're no more a Bolton than he is."

That had hurt him. She knew it would. At those words, Domeric felt a great anger burning inside him. Part of him wanted to call for the guards. Another part of him wanted to strike her for disrespecting him so. He might have done it too, to his own shame, but then he saw a tiny stream of blood trickle down her open palm. A second ran down her other hand, emerging from beneath her sleeve.

He took a step toward her. "Drucilla?"

His sister had stopped making sense now, her words reduced to this incoherent murmur. Her body was swaying, legs stumbling over each other. She seemed about to fall.

His eyes widened. "Drucilla!"

He lunged forward and caught her just before she hit the ground. All his muscles tightened. The pain in his side was spreading. He pulled and heaved. He gasped. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he could barely feel hers as she lay against him. She had gone limp in his arms, his baby sister, whom just moments ago he'd wanted to hurt. He cursed himself for ever thinking such a thing.

"Drucilla." He swept her hair out of her pale face. It looked grey now and felt cold to his touch. Her eyelids were fluttering open and closed; her mouth was open, murmuring something … something about the flayed man. He took her in his arms and laid her down upon the bed. She reached for him just as he was about to pull away. Her hand looked so tiny then. Sometimes he forgot how young she was.

"Domeric," she muttered, reaching, "don't."

He took her extended arm and pushed back her sleeve. The blood had seeped through her bandages. Three splotches of red on her tiny forearm. He knew instantly what they were.

"You were leeching again?" He didn't know who was more to blame: Drucilla for doing it, Maester Uthor for recommending it, or his lord father for encouraging it all these years. "Why, Drucilla?"

"Maester Uthor said … he said it would get rid of the bad blood … and the bad thoughts." Her arm fell to her side and her breathing slowed. "I just wanted to sleep. I just wanted to sleep, Domeric."

She closed her eyes and slipped into a deep sleep. The wrinkle in her brow faded. She seemed at peace for once. Domeric pulled the blankets over her and sat by her side all night, watching over her as he should have done from the beginning.

He stroked the top of her head. "You can't stay here, Drucilla. This place will kill you if you stay."

But he knew she would find no comfort in King's Landing. His father was wrong to send her there to live with the Lannister queen. Wrong to marry her to the Imp. He was wrong about everything. So Domeric went to his writing desk. He snatched a goose feather quill and a well of black ink, and he wrote a letter. His last act of defiance. Drucilla's last hope for a better life.

And he sealed it with hot wax.

* * *

The next morning, Drucilla awoke to Maester Uthor wrapping her forearms with fresh bandages. His square jaw was tight. His thin lips were pursed in a concentrated frown. And his low-hanging jowls were swinging back and forth as he worked.

The old man scolded her for leeching without his supervision. "And stay out of my stores, will you? I know you're the one who keeps going in there. Don't try to lie now. Stealing all my keys, stirring up trouble." Drucilla had several jars of leeches hidden in her room. The maester had found most of them. Most of them. "It's not becoming of a lady to steal. Besides, you could get your hands on something quite dangerous if you're not careful."

"Like poison?"

"Yes, exactly."

She stared at the lead links on his chain. "How do you make poison?"

"Carefully, very carefully."

"Can you teach me?"

He chuckled. "Now why would you need to learn how to make poisons? What nonsense! If you want I can teach you how to make simple healing potions, but that's another matter for another day, sweet girl. You need to rest now. And stop leeching for a while, all right? Too many leechings can put the blood terribly out of balance, you know. A scary thing that would be too. Be glad your brother was there." He offered her a medicinal sweet red wine to cure her ailment. "Good for the blood," he said. "Drink up, my lady. And be sure to eat well over these next few days. Lots of meats and greens. You can't go around skipping meals all the time like you usually do. It's not healthy for a young lady." He cleared his throat. "Now drink up, will you? Every drop."

Drucilla brought the cup to her lips and took a sip. It had a strange taste once the sweetness of it wore off.

"Where's Domeric?" she asked.

"Gone, my lady. Left some time ago."

She sat up. "Where did he go?"

"Well I don't know. He rode through the main gate hours ago. Seemed to be in an awful rush too. But you need not worry about him, my lady. Come now, drink."

Drucilla knew exactly where her brother had gone. "That fool!" She tossed the cup aside and leapt out of bed. The maester was slow to get up and even slower to follow. He tried to get her back into bed — "Please, my lady, … you need your … " — but Drucilla was out the door before he could finish his wandering thought.

Drucilla went to the main gate, where Sour Alyn and Grunt were standing guard. _Gods_, she thought when she saw them, _no wonder Domeric managed to get out so easily, with these two idiots guarding the gate. _

Sour Alyn was as stupid as they came, but he was loyal and fierce with a blade. He'd once killed another guardsman during a drunken game of dice, split him right up the middle and then watched his innards come pouring out. He was laughing the whole time. So was the other man, for a while, until the drunkenness wore off and the pain came. Then he started screaming. Nobody wanted to throw dice with Alyn after that, except for Grunt, that is, because he didn't have the tongue to refuse when he asked. He'd lost his tongue years ago for speaking carelessly in the presence of Lord Bolton. Drucilla had seen it happen. Her father had used it to teach her a lesson about respect. Now Grunt was a good, faithful soldier.

"Where did my brother go?" she asked the both of them.

"Didn't say, m'lady," answered Alyn.

"And you didn't think to ask him?" She heard Grunt give a muffled grunt. She took that to mean no, but it could have just as easily meant something else. "Who did he take with him? Horace? Marvin?"

Another grunt. Sour Alyn lowered his mismatched eyes to the ground and held them there.

Drucilla walked over to him, standing so close she could smell his rancid breath when he exhaled. "You let my brother leave these gates without an armed escort?"

Sour Alyn ran his tongue over his rotten teeth. "We offered. He refused, m'lady. Gave us an order."

"Oh he did, did he?" He nodded. "And you always follow orders, don't you, Alyn?" He nodded again, feeling more comfortable. Drucilla smiled and stepped back two paces. "Very well, then. Let's see how well you follow orders, hmm? Alyn, I want you to take out your dagger."

He looked at Grunt and then back at her.

"Go on, go on," she said, "whip it out."

Alyn hesitantly did as she ordered. Then he waited. Grunt watched, knowing what was about to happen.

"Now," Drucilla said, "I want you to take that dagger and drive it right through your eye socket."

Alyn paused, his eyes bulging in disbelief. The blue one looked bigger than the green. It always looked bigger. "M'lady?"

"You heard me. Do as your lady commands. Whichever you prefer, Alyn. Choose the lazy one since it's already quitting on you, I see."

Grunt's gaze deepened, his lips twisting into a hard, crooked line. In a strange sort of way, he almost seemed to be enjoying this. As for Alyn, his hand was shaking as he raised the dagger to his eye level. The sharp point was inches away from his lazy green eye. His blue eye started going cross from staring so long at the approaching blade.

It came closer.

And Grunt leaned closer.

Closer and closer.

Alyn's eyes were starting to water. His lips were quivering.

It came closer and closer and …

"That's enough, Alyn," Drucilla decided with a smile. "Now do you see? Commands can be dangerous, can't they? Grunt here knows that better than any of us." He had been ordered to remove his own tongue. Scary of all was how fast he obeyed.

Sour Alyn lowered his dagger and bent his head. "Pardons, m'lady."

"And you shall have it," she answered, "after my father, your lord, returns from King's Landing. I will tell him how the both of you put his only son and heir in danger. Then you'll have your forgiveness, if my father should be so kind to give it. Until then, I want you to go with our best men and retrieve my brother." She looked around the yard. In truth, all the best men had already gone, save for Horace Heartclever and the Maneater, but she felt safer with them here. For this task, she needed the cruelest men in the Dreadfort guard. The ones without mercy. The monsters.

She saw Damon Dance-for-Me walking across the yard. It was the first time she'd ever been glad to see him. She called upon him to lead because he commanded the most respect and would keep the others in line. Luton would go too because he loved a good hunt, and Yellow Dick as well because he'd volunteered. A whore from Blackburrow had given him that nickname after they'd spent a night together. It was the last thing she said before Yellow Dick drowned her in the river and then bashed her head against the rocks. Then he took the name for his own. He was a squat, ugly man with big arms and hammer-like fists.

Drucilla stood before them all, the five most menacing guardsmen in Lord Bolton's service, as they gathered before the main gate. "My brother has gone to the old miller's cottage along the southern bend of the Weeping Water." They knew the place. They'd been there before, delivering their lord's justice. "Find him and bring him back to the Dreadfort."

Damon replied in a smooth voice, "As you say, m'lady."

"Sounds easy enough," snorted Yellow Dick. "What're we waitin' for?"

Drucilla made a gesture with her hand. The men fell silent immediately, as if their lord was commanding it. "One more thing," she said. "If you see the bastard, kill him. That's an order. Kill him and bring his body back with you."

Grunt grunted while Sour Alyn laughed and Luton grinned a vicious grin. Beside him, Yellow Dick was scratching impatiently at the wart on his chin.

Damon nodded and took the reins. "As m'lady commands." He turned toward the others. "Let's go, boys."

Yellow Dick took off first, tearing across the long bridge. Grunt and Sour Alyn followed on black rounceys. Then went Luton, galloping off with a quiver of arrows strapped to his back and his cherished bow grasped firmly in his left hand. Damon was the last to go. He did a tight circle around Drucilla and then cantered through the gate. As always, he carried his long, greased whip.


	18. CHAPTER 18

**Chapter 18: The Bear and the Maiden Fair**

Today was a good day for a hunt, Ramsay decided as he walked through the Dreadwoods.

He ran and leapt onto the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree. He stopped to listen, his oaken bow strapped to his back, next to a quiver full of goose-fletched arrows. His dirty, calloused fingers brushed against one of the soft white feathers. He liked the way it felt against his skin. Beneath him, an army of black ants were swarming a lizard carcass among the leaf litter. High above him lingered the shadow of a half moon, and the early morning sun was but a faint white blur beyond the treetops. A single beam broke through the dense forest canopy and set his pale skin aglow. At times like this, thought Reek, his master seemed more like a god than a man.

Ramsay closed his eyes and breathed in the musty forest air. It was the smell of death and decay. Mostly it was the smell of Reek, who sluggishly followed his master around, hobbling along on his bad leg. The flies went with him, buzzing and buzzing as they did. He would swat at them every now and again, but they always came back. Ramsay thought he was making a game of it.

He hopped down and continued through the forest. "Come along, Reek." And his faithful Reek was right behind him, singing a poor rendition of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair." Sometimes Ramsay wondered if that was the only song he knew.

"_A bear there was_," sang Reek as he bounced and skipped around with the flies buzzing overhead, "_a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair._" He picked at the crusty scabs on his face. The raw skin beneath oozed and bled, but Reek paid little mind to it. His body was covered with red, itchy bumps from all the little biters. They were on him day and night, biting and stinging. Smack! He squashed another one dead on his cheek. "_The fair? said he, But I'm a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair!_"

The minstrel Reek and his band of biters. He picked, picked, picked, and the flies buzzed, buzzed, buzzed.

"_Three boys, a goat, and a dancing bear! They danced and spun, all the way to the fair!_" He sang it just as he'd heard it seven years ago, while little Drucilla was sitting in courtyard with all her ugly dolls — the ones she'd made herself, some without limbs, others without proper faces, if they had faces at all. She would make them dance as she sang to them. "_Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair!_" She had looked so innocent then, Reek remembered, with her big grey eyes, snow white skin, and brown curls. "_The maid with honey in her hair!_" And Reek had liked to watch her play. Sometimes he would watch her for hours, that little Drucilla Bolton, back when she was pure and fair.

But no, thought Reek with a violent shake of his head, Drucilla was never any of those things, not truly. Even then she was a cruel and conniving girl. Oh, but she could sing the sweetest song when she wanted to.

"_The bear smelled the scent on the summer air._" Reek had approached her one day with a bouquet of wildflowers, the prettiest he could find, and he asked her to dance, just like in the song. The fair maid always danced with the hairy bear in the song. "_Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair! I'll never dance with a hairy bear!_" Drucilla took the flowers and stomped them into the dirt. "_Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair. I'll never dance with a hairy bear!_" And she screamed for the guards, that sweet little girl, said Reek had tried to touch her. "_A bear, a bear!_"

_But no, said Reek, I never touched a hair!  
She'd lied to the guards, that maiden pure and fair.  
No, said Reek, I'd never dare!  
And they beat him there in the castle square._

Then Reek saw his master stop and turn with an intimidating glare. "Reek," said Ramsay, more kindly than he expected, "enough singing now. You wouldn't want to scare her away, would you? Not when we're so close to finishing the game." Reek stepped back and shook his head. "Good, Reek." His master was smiling. He was pleased. And Reek liked to keep him happy.

They crossed the shallow stream on foot, the cold water splashing up around them, and then climbed up the steep, rocky bank on the other side. Reek wobbled and swayed this way and that, but his master never lost his footing. His master was a champion of the hunt no matter the terrain.

"Why do they always try to hide, Reek?" Ramsay asked. "They would have a much better chance if they just kept at it. Maybe they can outrun us. Maybe they can escape the woods and make it to safety. You're not that fast, are you, Reek? Not with your bum leg and all. Anybody could outrun you." He smiled a pitiful sort of smile. "But now the game's over." He turned right and walked around a strong soldier pine. Reek kept to his own path. The flies followed. "I suppose it's for the best, though. I'm growing tired of this game. It's just not fun anymore. Soon we'll need a new game, Reek."

"Yes, Master." _A new game_, Reek thought, _with the little lady, though I don't suspect she'll much like it._

Then he saw it. A flicker of brown between the trees. Reek pointed with his hand and cried, "There she goes!"

Reek took off first, laughing and limping along. Ramsay went after, his bow gripped firmly in his left hand. He took ten quick steps and then drew an arrow from his quiver, aimed, and fired in one fluid motion. The arrow whizzed past Reek's head and cut through the forest. A shriek followed. Further ahead, Reek spotted a trail of blood in the dirt. He grinned and quickened his pace.

"_Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair!_"

Reek ran through the underbrush and found the girl crawling slowly on all fours, her bare breasts swinging beneath her, her knees and elbows scraped up and bleeding. Reek smirked and approached her slowly. She tried to get up and run, but the arrow in her thigh sent her crashing back down. Then she started sobbing into the dirt.

"Oh, come on." Reek snapped off one of the overhanging tree branches, one nearly as thick as his bony arm, and he started swinging it around. "Don't give up now. You've almost won the game. The river's just there beyond the trees." He pointed with the branch. "See?"

"Please," the girl said, her voice reduced to a quiet whimper. "I just want to go home, please!" She screamed when she saw the stick coming at her. She screamed louder when it lashed across her bare skin. It left a searing red line across her back.

"Please!" Reek mocked. "Please!" And he beat her again and again until his arm got sore. When he drew back his hand, the stick was spattered with blood. He flinched once he spotted it and apologized to the girl. "I guess I got a little too excited. It's been a while, you see." He chucked the branch over his shoulder and smiled. "No more, I promise, sweet girl. Do you forgive me?"

The girl didn't respond. She didn't move. Ten red lines dripped blood down her back.

Reek squatted down beside her. "_I called for a knight, but you're a bear! All black and brown and covered with hair._" He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head up, making her wince. "_She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair, but he licked the honey from her hair._" He pulled her close and inhaled her scent. How sweet she smelled, that fisherman's daughter. And she was prettier too, much prettier than the others. "Come on, sing! You know the words! _Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air! My bear! she sang. My bear so fair! And off they went, from here to there, the bear, the bear, and the maiden fair._"

Ramsay walked up to them while Reek was singing and the girl was struggling. He leaned down and studied the girl's face. Reek did his duty and held her still. The girl was crying, begging him for mercy as they always did. Everyone except her. Ramsay frowned and straightened himself. "It's not right." Her brown hair was too stringy and thin. Her eyes were as green as the forest and full of tears. "It's not right at all. You've brought me the wrong one, Reek."

Reek scrunched up his face. Then he looked at her and realized his mistake. "But it's close, Master. Maybe if you squint your eyes."

"No," Ramsay said, taking a step back. He raised his bow and fired a second arrow through the girl's skull. Reek gave a shrill cry when it happened. The pretty fisherman's daughter went limp in his arms, blood pouring down her face. _What a waste!_ Reek thought as he cradled her._ What a waste of a pretty face and warm flesh. The master always spoils them for me!_ When he looked up, he thought he saw his master smiling, like a cruel child who'd willfully broken his little brother's favorite toy.

"I leave her to you, Reek. Do with her what you will. When you're finished, drag her further out and leave her for the wolves. Far out, Reek, somewhere off in the mountains where nobody will find her. Much further than the last time. You almost spoiled our game the last time. A serving girl, really? Are you stupid?" A woodsman and his son had found her the next morning, her grey arm sticking out from under a thorny bush. It didn't take long before word got back to the Dreadfort. Much to Reek's misfortune, the girl was Black Barron the blacksmith's youngest daughter, Ailis, a maid of fourteen. It was her first day working the orchards. "A very poor choice, Reek. Be more careful this time."

"Yes, Master." Reek stroked the top of the girl's bloody head with a tender hand and whispered sweetly to her, like he imagined a lover would. Ramsay didn't care to watch, so he left Reek to his perversions and made his way back home. As he walked away, he thought he heard Reek whisper his sister's name.

* * *

The old miller's cottage was in shambles, reduced to four broken walls with holes where the windows and doors used to be. Ramsay was sitting in the middle of them, with a skewer of squirrel in his hand. Two more were hanging above the fire beside him, roasted until they were all black and charred. He tore off a piece of sizzling hot meat with his teeth, chewed, and swallowed. The rest he tossed back into the fire. Then he fell onto his back and rested for a while among the ash and dirt of his ruined home.

He dreamed of the Dreadfort and its tall black towers. Walking through the great gates, seeing all the pink-and-red banners flapping back and forth in the wind. The flayed man strung high above him, welcoming him home. Fierce and fearless, it loomed over all else. His family was waiting to greet him in the yard. His lord father and his sister. Drucilla kissed him on the cheek and called him brother.

Sometime later, Ramsay awoke to the feeling of cold water on his face. Above him the sky was an angry grey and cracking with the sound of thunder. He sat up, wiped the wetness from his cheeks, and looked around. The fire was dying, Reek was still gone, and the Dreadfort seemed even further from his reach. Today it could scarcely be seen beyond the thick morning mists.

Ramsay climbed to his feet and walked into the shallows. The rain turned to ice and beat down hard on the river's surface. Ramsay stood in the middle of it. The water rose up around him, rippling and chattering with every plop of ice. He took a deep breath and submerged himself.

Down there, deep below the surface, there was nothing but cold and darkness, silence and calm, and Ramsay let himself sink further and further into the nothingness.

He opened his eyes. In the dark emptiness below, he saw the flayed man swimming up toward him, its long limbs wrapped with red veins and pink muscle tissue. _I don't fear the flayed man_, Ramsay thought as he stared at it, _not anymore_. He watched as it came closer and closer. Swimming. Stretching. Reaching with its bloody hand.

The flayed man tried to grab his ankle. Ramsay screamed, air bubbles spewing from his open mouth, and reeled backwards. He kicked for the surface, his arms and legs flailing with desperation, but then he felt a sharp tug on his leg. The flayed man had him and was pulling him down below where the light couldn't reach.

All the air exploded from his lungs. Ramsay's arms flew up over his head and struck something sturdy. It was clutched onto his head like a giant clawed spider and pushing down, holding him under water. Ramsay fought back and thrashed violently about. The claws dug deep into his scalp. They kept some of his hair when he finally ripped himself free.

The surface came rushing fast. Ramsay broke through and gasped for air, his mouth filling with rainwater. In the morning light he caught a glimpse of a giant black mass, panting and grunting like an animal. It moved too fast. It was already back on him. Hands seized him and crushed him. Ramsay wrenched his head around and yelled, "REEK!" before he was pushed back under. His face smashed against riverbank, and threads of red seeped through his parted lips. He kept thinking, _Reek! Reek! Help me! Help your master!_

Then the hands grabbed him again. They pulled him out of the water and threw him onto the bank. Ramsay flailed around like a washed up fish, coughing and spitting up water. "Reek!" he sputtered, his eyes bulging out of his skull. "Reek!" He looked around for his Reek. "Reek!"

But Reek wasn't there.

Instead he saw his brother, Domeric Bolton, standing on the riverbank with the wind tearing through his black hair, his long fur cloak billowing behind him. He looked like one of the winter heroes the smallfolk sang about. And clutched in his hand was his greatsword, its sharp steel blade stained with fresh blood. Domeric was gazing at it strangely, as if he didn't understand how it had gotten there. In front of him, the body of a man was floating away with the current.

Domeric gulped. "I've never killed a man before." He kept looking back and forth between the blood on his blade and the dead man's body. It had all happened so fast. Domeric saw the man attacking his brother, and before he knew it he had drawn his sword from its scabbard and thrust it through the man's back.

"Really?" Ramsay replied. "Well you could have fooled me, m'lord."

Domeric wiped his sword clean and sheathed it. By then, the man was halfway down the river, nothing more than a speck of black. "My father must have sent him," Domeric said. "He gave me his word that you would be spared, but deep down I know he was lying." He turned around and saw the ruined cottage. "He did that too, didn't he?"

"Yes, m'lord. My mother, she was ..."

Domeric saw the mound of dirt beside the tree. He hung his head. "I'm sorry."

"No need, m'lord. It's my own fault. She warned me not to seek you out, and I didn't listen." Ramsay slowly staggered to his feet and tried to shake some warmth back into his limbs. "I never listened to her. May she forgive me, wherever she is. And I hope she's finally at peace."

He looked up at the cloudy sky. At last the storm seemed to be passing, the rain reduced to a light drizzle. With a tired sigh, Ramsay walked back to the remains of his home and sat down beside the dying fire, no more than a few glowing embers in a pit of wet ash. Domeric hesitantly followed. He lingered in the doorway as he watched his half brother attempt to breathe life back into the flames.

"I'm afraid I've nothing to offer you, m'lord," Ramsay said, "except a few burnt squirrels."

Domeric shook his head. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Well sit down at least. You're family, after all. You'll always have a place at my hearth."

"And I should offer you the same," Domeric said, "but my sister, Drucilla, she wouldn't like it. To be honest, she didn't want me to come here at all." He remembered her words. Then he felt the sharp sting of guilt for betraying her. He prayed she would come to understand his decision, one day.

Ramsay nodded. "Can't say I blame her. It was an awful thing I did to her. Truly terrible. We were just playing, she and I, playing an innocent game of hide-and-seek in the forest. I caught her and I tackled her to the ground, and she hit me real hard across the face, even knocked a few of my good teeth loose." He frowned. "Now, I know I ought never hurt a woman, but ... but something inside me just snapped. Somehow the knife got in my hand and I was trying to stab her! I thank the gods for ensuring the guards came when they did, or else I might've killed her. My own sister. My flesh and blood." He shook his head. "I don't expect her to ever forgive me for what I did. And I can't fault her for that either."

"Well, Drucilla is ... complicated." Impossible, Domeric wanted to say, but complicated seemed a kinder word.

"Complicated, yes." Ramsay chuckled a little to himself. "You know the smallfolk say she's got a sickness. Bad blood I think they called it. Of course, those are just nasty rumors and silly peasant superstitions. There's no truth to it — any of it — especially not those rumors about Deanna." He turned back to the fire and fed it more wood. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Domeric's face change.

"What rumors?" he asked.

Ramsay bit his tongue to keep from smiling. "Nothing, m'lord. I shouldn't have brought it up at all. Let the dead rest, Mother always said. Speaking about them only makes it more difficult for them to sleep."

"What rumors?" Domeric pressed, his temper burning hotter than Ramsay's small fire.

"Nothing, m'lord. It's just, some fishermen claim they saw Deanna and Drucilla playing by the river that day. That's all."

"Well that's not possible. Deanna and Drucilla never played together." Domeric couldn't remember a time when his younger sisters ever got along. They were so different. Deanna loved to laugh and play. Drucilla didn't care for either of those things, not really. Sometimes Domeric wondered if she enjoyed anything at all.

Ramsay shrugged. "Maybe they were doing something else then. Or maybe the fishermen didn't see them at all. It's just peasant talk, m'lord. Don't trouble yourself over it."

Domeric shook his head. "Drucilla couldn't have been there."

"You're probably right, m'lord. And even if she was there, I doubt she would ever hurt her own sister."

"No, of course not." Except for that one time she had, but that was just a children's squabble. Drucilla hadn't meant to inflict any serious harm. Back then, Drucilla was just this tiny thing that sat on the floor by Hilda's feet and played with her dolls.

But then there were other times, Domeric remembered, rare but vivid in his mind, when his little sister absolutely terrified him. Some nights he would wake to find her curled up at the foot of his bed, silently staring at him with a strange look in her eyes. When he would ask why she wasn't in her room, Drucilla would tiredly answer, "The flayed man's standing in my room again, and he won't leave. Make him leave, Domeric." The memory of it made Domeric shiver.

Ramsay noticed this and thought he might be cold. "Come sit by the fire, m'lord. It's not much, but it's warm."

"No." Domeric stepped back. "No, I should head back. Drucilla's probably worried herself sick by now."

"As you say, m'lord."

Domeric went to Storm and untied him from the tree trunk. In the distance he saw a group of men without banners riding on horseback toward the cottage. One he recognized immediately as Damon Dance-for-Me, an affectionate nickname given to him by some of the serving women. He liked it well enough to keep it. Often times he would visit Blackburrow with the other guardsman and sit with a whore in his lap while he drank and played dice with the other men. He was very popular with the whores of Blackburrow. But he'd never found a woman he liked more than his whip.

Damon made a confident approach, his horse's hooves kicking up showers of mud and water, but not a drop touched him. His dark blond hair was slicked back behind his ears and drenched from the rain. A few loose strands fell over his face when he tipped his head. "M'lord," he said, "we've come to take you back to the Dreadfort."

"My sister sent you, did she? How kind of her to send me an escort." Domeric forced a smile. "As it happens, I'm on my way back there now. Let's share the road, hmm?"

Damon was looking past him, his lips curling into a smirk. "Aye, m'lord, we'll do that, but first we have some business to take care of." He made a gesture with his head, and one by one all his men dismounted. Grunt and Sour Alyn came from the left. Yellow Dick and Luton came from the right. Domeric saw the swords on their belts and clumsily reached for his own, but by the time he had a grip on it, the men were already several paces past him. Sour Alyn and Grunt walked into the cottage rubble and came out dragging the Bolton bastard with them.

Domeric spun around. "What are you doing?"

"Just following orders, m'lord." Damon swung his leg over the saddle and hopped down. He walked past Domeric and joined the rest of his men. At Damon's command, Sour Alyn and Grunt forced the bastard onto his knees and Yellow Dick prepared his giant battle axe. It was a heavy, brutish weapon that could cleave off a man's head with a single stroke. He called it his favorite little whore, because he liked the sweet sound it made when it hacked into a man's flesh. "Don't worry, bastard," Yellow Dick said to Ramsay, "she'll be good to you."

Domeric stormed over to them. "My sister commanded this?"

Yellow Dick smiled. "Aye, she did."

"But I'm castellan of the Dreadfort. You follow my commands, not my sister's." He stood up straight. "Now I - I command you to stop this at once."

All the guardsmen were staring at him, their eyes sharp as steel. Domeric stood tall and strong, strong as he could. Underneath his cloak, he could feel his hands trembling. He hoped they wouldn't notice.

"Beggin' your pardons, m'lord," Damon said, "but we were given other orders."

"From Lord Bolton," Luton interrupted, his bow resting at his side.

"And we follow his command, not yours."

Yellow Dick snorted in agreement. "He said to kill the bastard if he ever got close to his children again. Well, here you are." He pointed at Domeric with his axe. Then he pointed at Ramsay. "And here he is. So you see our hands are tied."

"Orders is orders," Sour Alyn said, and Grunt grunted.

Yellow Dick took a step back and readied his axe, taking a few practice swings. Domeric's eyes widened. He looked at his brother. Trapped in a kneeling position, Ramsay flinched every time he saw the blade come down. "It's all right, m'lord," he uttered despite himself. "This is the punishment I deserve. Let not your heart be burdened by my death. I'm just a bastard. My life is worthless." He squeezed his eyes shut and awaited the final blow.

Yellow Dick nodded. "Aye, it's worthless." Then he drew back his axe and brought it up over his head. But before he could swing it all the way around, he heard a voice hiss, "Stop!" and for a moment he thought he was hearing Lord Bolton's voice. The axe fell forward, slicing through the air, and fell to his side. Ramsay breathed a sigh of relief.

"Stop," Domeric said again, his eyes narrowing into thin shards of ice. "If you kill him, I'll have you all hanging from the gallows by morning."

Yellow Dick held his position. "He's bluffin'."

"See if I am. But if you kill him, I promise you'll hang first. And your neck won't break when it happens. I'll make sure you die slowly, twisting in agony until your face turns blue." Domeric froze. Yellow Dick seemed about ready to challenge him. His favorite little whore was thirsty for blood — bastard or Bolton, it made no matter whose.

But then Damon stepped forward, a smile on his beardless face. "Very good, m'lord."

Yellow Dick threw him a look. "What?"

"You heard Lord Bolton," Damon answered. "The bastard lives. We're done here."

Yellow Dick growled. "Then why the fuck did we come 'ere?" Wordless, he turned and stormed off with his axe in hand. The others released Ramsay and followed, muttering amongst themselves.

Domeric watched them go, expecting to feel the satisfaction of a great victory, but for some reason all he felt was a sourness in his stomach. Maybe it was the way it all happened. Or maybe it was the way Damon Dance-for-Me smiled at him. Somehow it felt like Domeric was playing right into his hand. He wondered if he had any intention of killing the bastard at all. Was it a trick? A test that Domeric had failed? Domeric didn't know, and he didn't have the time to worry about it now, not while his brother knelt there looking up at him.

Domeric extended his hand to him. Ramsay reached up and grasped his brother's forearm tightly. "That's twice now you've saved my life," he rasped as he climbed to his feet. "That's twice more than I deserve. From this day until my last day, I'm yours, brother." His eyes were clear and determined. His words felt genuine.

Domeric placed a firm hand on his brother's shoulder. "Let's go home."


	19. CHAPTER 19

**Chapter 19: Bread and Salt**

Drucilla sat in silence, staring into the red eyes of the weirwood, its face stern and unsympathetic, its long white branches twisting out like a hundred tortured limbs.

All weirwoods were unique, Hilda had once said, back when Drucilla still cared to listen to her. Each weirwood had its face and each face had its expression. In the Rills, the weirwood of House Ryswell was said to have the warmth and tenderness of a mother, while the weirwood of Barrow Hall held a mocking smile and would often laugh during times of solemn prayer. Lady Dustin claimed the weirwood had laughed while she prayed for her lord husband's safety after he'd gone off to fight in Robert's Rebellion. It laughed again as she prayed for his bones to be returned to Barrow Hall.

But this weirwood never laughed and it never smiled. It watched and it listened, judging all who stood before it. It was judging Drucilla now as she knelt upon the godswood floor, her black coat fanned out around her. She whispered a quiet prayer to the gods for her brother's safe return. "Bring him home," she said, waiting for a sign that they'd heard her: a sigh from the wind, a rustle of the leaves. "Please, bring him home." She sat back and looked around. After a time, she received their answer. The cold wind blew her hair across her face and sent the leaves swirling off the ground. She saw them and smiled. "Thank you."

Behind her knelt her cousins Tansy and Tally, wearing black cloaks over grey gowns, their blonde hair tied back in loose knots. Drucilla glanced over her shoulder to look at them. Tally's eyes were closed and her lips were murmuring a prayer of her own. When Drucilla listened closely, she swore she heard her cousin utter a boy's name.

"What are you praying for?" Drucilla asked her, whispering so as not to wake their governess, who was resting in the shade of an old oak tree.

Tally gave a startled look, then blushed a deep shade of red. "To wed Benfred Tallhart," she shyly confessed, twirling her finger around a thin blade of grass. She glanced at her younger sister and they both started giggling like a pair of giddy maids. Hilda snorted in her sleep, then shifted her position.

Drucilla rolled her eyes. Of course they were praying for romance. They thought of nothing else. "The gods don't care who you marry."

Tally stopped laughing and her expression soured. "Of course they care. They care about me, don't they? And I certainly care who I marry, so the gods should too. Now be quiet, will you? I'm not finished yet."

But Drucilla would not be so easily silenced. "Tally, stop troubling the gods with your selfish problems. You should be praying for your cousin."

"I've already prayed for my cousin. Now I'm praying for me. Perhaps you should do the same, Drucilla, and pray that the gods save you from the Lannister imp." Tally preferred that name over his real name, probably because of the way Drucilla fumed whenever she heard it. "If they listen half as much as you say they do, perhaps they'll stop the marriage. Maybe they'll even see that you marry Robb Stark, like we all know you so desperately want." She liked to bring up Robb Stark too, proudly, as if she had something to do with her cousin's failed proposal.

Tansy gave her sister a shrewd look. "Now why did you have to go and say that, Tally? You know Drucilla's never going to marry Robb Stark. It's unkind to get her hopes up like that."

Drucilla wanted to scream. "You're wrong," she said, rising from the ground, "both of you. I don't care about Robb Stark, and I wouldn't waste my prayers on him. Why, I'd have better luck praying for summer in the dead of winter." She turned away from them with a huff, then snuck a quick peek at Hilda, who had started to snore. "And you shouldn't be praying to the gods for marriage, either of you. They have no say in the matter. In the end, your lord and uncle will decide who you marry. It's his favor you need to win over."

"But Lord Bolton will never listen to me," Tally said, sinking in defeat. She sat like that for a while, pouting and sulking; then she gasped and climbed to her feet. "But he would listen to you, Drucilla." She tiptoed past Hilda and rushed to her cousin's side. "So you should talk to him for me. You will, won't you? Please tell me you will." She threw her arms around Drucilla's shoulders, hugging her close like a dear friend. "Oh please, cousin, I'll just die if I don't marry Benfred Tallhart."

Drucilla wiggled uncomfortably in her grasp. "Will you, really?" she asked, dryly. Was that too much to hope for?

"Yes!" Tally said much too loudly. Hilda started to stir and scratch at her chin. "Please, it's the only thing I want in the whole world. Just talk to your father and make the suggestion — you know, in that clever way you do — and I know he'll agree to it. Please, Drucilla, say you'll do me this kindness. I'll never ask anything of you ever again. And I'll bring no more trouble to you. I'll be sweet to you, really I will, and I'll even make you a new dress. A real pretty one, in whatever color you want, even black." Tally was always commenting on the dullness of Drucilla's wardrobe. She said she dressed as if she was in constant mourning.

Drucilla looked down at her dress and saw nothing wrong with it. "But I don't need a new dress." She pulled hard against her and tore herself free, stumbling in the grass, but she found her footing quickly. "And you're mad if you think I have any sway with my lord father. I've no power over his decisions, least of all in matters of marriage. I've tried and failed with my own affairs. Why should I trouble myself with yours? Tally Ryswell, you'll no sooner wed Benfred Tallhart than I'll wed Robb Stark. And if you think you'll fool me with sweet words, you're wrong. I know you too well to trust you. You'll be kind to my face and then whisper behind my back, as you always do."

Tally seemed surprised by her cousin's harsh words. She clutched her hand to her chest and started to sob, though no tears came from her eyes. "Oh, Drucilla, you're just the worst cousin that ever lived. I came to you for help, and this is how you treat me? How can you be so cold?" She pulled out her handkerchief and started dabbing her already dry eyes. "All I want is a good match with a noble house. I'm pretty enough to deserve one, aren't I?"

_Pretty dramatic, I__'d say. What she deserves is a good whipping. _"Save the tears for when you marry a Frey, Tally, because that's the best match you'll ever get, if I have any say in the matter." She smirked. "As it happens, I hear Walder Frey is looking for a new young wife. You should be pretty enough for him."

Tally gasped. "You wouldn't dare." She stomped her feet and squealed like a pig, startling their governess awake. "You're a horrible, horrible girl, Drucilla Bolton! You go right ahead and wed me to a Frey. _You go right ahead!_ Even a Frey is better than the Lannister dwarf!"

Now Hilda was on her feet and ready to give them all a good thrashing. "What are you girls going on about now? The godswood is a place for prayer and contemplation, not childish bickering. Honestly, ladies, I'm ashamed of you both."

Tally cringed, knowing she was the one who'd woken her, but she blamed Drucilla for getting her all worked up. Drucilla had that way about her. She knew exactly where to strike in order to inflict the most damage with the least amount of blood on her hands. "But, Hilda," she whined, "Drucilla threatened to marry me to Walder Frey. Can you imagine that? I can't think of a worse fate in all the Seven Kingdoms."

"Oh, Tally, stop your blubbering. No man likes a crying woman, not even a Frey." The old woman put on a smile when she saw the maester approaching. "Good day, Maester Uthor!" she called with a friendly wave; then she turned toward the young maidens and gave them all a strict look. "Now quiet yourselves, ladies. Be respectful. On your feet, Tansy, and don't slouch. Stand tall, all of you, shoulders back. Yes, just like that. Lovely." She reached over and molded Tansy into the proper posture. "Drucilla, Tally, quit your whispering. Don't think I can't hear you. I'm old, but I'm not that old."

The girls waited in a straight line, standing like perfect ladies, all except Tansy, who kept slouching no matter how many times Hilda corrected her.

Old Maester Uthor was shuffling across the godswood floor in his long grey robe, his back hunched and chains jangling as they swung back and forth. By the time he reached them, he was terribly out of breath. "Excuse me, … my ladies, I don't mean to … to trouble you, but there's a - a message from Winterfell." He slowly reached into his robes and pulled out a small scroll. And he offered it to Drucilla, much to the girl's surprise.

She looked at the scroll, then back at the maester. "Why are you giving it to me?" she asked. "Surely this is meant for Domeric's eyes, not mine." She assumed it was a letter from his betrothed, Sansa Stark. He'd already written her and was awaiting her reply.

"Yes, but it's not for Lord Domeric. It's for you, my lady."

"For Lady Drucilla?" said Hilda. "But she's expecting no letters from Winterfell. And it would be improper for a young man to write a lady without first obtaining the permission of her lord father. Imagine if the other houses found out Lady Drucilla was conversing in secret with a Stark boy." She thought of the Lannisters and Drucilla's marriage contract to Lord Tyrion. "What a scandal that would be! I won't risk my lady's reputation. Absolutely not." She stepped forward and seized the scroll. "This should be burned before it can do any more harm."

"But it's for me," Drucilla said, _from Robb Stark._ Somehow she just knew it was from him. "That message is for me. You can't burn it."

"But, my lady, you'll shame yourself if you accept this — and in the presence of the gods!"

"I don't care. Give me the scroll."

Hilda's face turned red. "Oh, Drucilla, you're bringing nothing but trouble upon yourself. Nothing good can come from this letter. Do you hear me? Nothing. Why, I remember when your mother started exchanging letters with a Stark—"

Drucilla waved her off. "Yes, that's all very well, Hilda. Now, the scroll." She held out her hand, a glimmer of impatience in her grey eyes.

Hilda scowled and raised her chin, that proud old woman, but ultimately submitted to her lady's request. "As you say, my lady," and she handed her the scroll. Drucilla took it and ran back to the weirwood, where she knew nobody would disturb her.

Sitting comfortably in the shade of the weirwood, Drucilla unfurled the scroll and quietly read it to herself. Hilda was still complaining to Maester Uthor about the Stark letter, and Tansy and Tally were bombarding their cousin with questions about its contents. "What does it say? What does it say?" Drucilla ignored them all and read on. The black ink had smeared in some places, but the message was clear. Robb Stark had written Drucilla a formal apology for the way he treated her during their final days together. _I misjudged you from the very beginning_, he'd written, _before I even knew you. I mistook false stories and petty gossip as truth and used them against you, and for that I apologize. _Drucilla read his words and remembered how frightened he'd seemed when he presented himself at her brother's tourney, how his knees had buckled as he went to sit down, how he'd struggled to hold her gaze and make conversation. Then she remembered how he'd smiled at her during the feast and spoke kindly to her when no one else would. She would never forget that night as long as she lived.

Drucilla allowed herself to get swept up by the memories, and they took her too far away. She didn't see Tally coming, and she wasn't able to stop her from snatching the letter out of her hands. It was gone before she knew it, slipped right through her fingers. Tally was laughing as she dashed off with it, the parchment flickering in the wind. She spun around and started reading it aloud to her sister.

"_Lady Drucilla_," she began, with a dramatic air, "_it shames me greatly to think of how I treated you during our final days together …_"

Drucilla jumped up and ran at her. "Give that back, Tally! It's mine!" She lunged for it, but Tally stepped out of the way and took off again. Drucilla chased after her, shouting every obscenity she'd ever heard. Their governess came forward and commanded the girls to stop running about the godswood, but neither of them listened. Tally darted around the weirwood and fled deeper into the wood. Drucilla wasn't far behind her.

"Give it back, Tally!"

"I will! I just want to see what he wrote!"

"It's just an apology!"

"If it's just an apology, why were you blushing?"

Drucilla didn't have an answer for that. She just kept running until she finally caught up with her cousin. By then, Tally had exhausted herself and was hiding among the soldier pines, her head bent over the wrinkled parchment as she read the rest of the letter to herself. Drucilla snuck up behind her and tried to rip the letter out of her hands. Tally anticipated her attack and held the letter high over her head, well beyond Drucilla's reach. She stood tall, her feet firmly planted, as Drucilla jumped all over her and slapped at her hands.

Tally started giggling. "Honestly, Drucilla, you're making quite a fuss over a simple apology letter."

"Because it's mine!" Drucilla sprang up and swatted at the air. The whole time Tally was taunting her with Robb Stark's own words, words Drucilla hadn't even read yet. Drucilla tried not to listen. She wanted to read them herself, without Tally's voice in her head.

But then something terrible happened, something that neither girl foresaw. A strong gust of wind came sweeping through the godswood, making the trees around them bend and reel. Leaf litter flew into Drucilla's eyes and caused her to stumble backwards. Then she heard Tally gasp. The wind ripped the letter out of her grasp and sent it tumbling over the treetops. "No!" Drucilla cried, running after it. She took twenty strong strides before stopping; then all she could do was watch it sail further and further away.

_I didn__'t even get to finish it_, Drucilla thought as her heart pounded in her chest. _I didn__'t even get to finish it. _

And now she would never know.

Swallowing her sadness, Drucilla turned and walked past Tally, who stood wringing her hands in guilt-ridden silence. "Drucilla," she'd started to say when her cousin came by, but Drucilla didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to hear how very sorry she was and how she hadn't meant for it to happen. It simply didn't matter. It _had_ happened and now her letter was gone. She saw no point in dwelling on it any longer.

By midday, Drucilla had forgotten about the letter entirely. Instead, she spent her time sitting by the window and watching the sentries patrol the wall. _It__'s been hours since Damon left_, she thought as fear clenched tightly at her heart,_ and still no word of Domeric. _She closed her eyes and remembered her prayers. _I won__'t worry. He'll be fine._

Tansy and Tally were in the middle of their music lesson. Tansy played the harp while Tally sang "Fair Maids of Summer." Even when Tansy strummed the wrong note, Tally performed it perfectly and elegantly. Tally did everything elegantly, even when she was being horrible. She sang like a songbird and knew all the popular court dances. She recited poetry like she'd written it herself. She knew how to dress and wear her hair. And she was beautiful, as beautiful as a young Cersei Lannister some might've dared to say. Hilda had said it a few times, to console Tally when she would start sobbing over still being unwed at fifteen.

"Drucilla's a nightmare," Tally had once said, unaware that Drucilla was listening, "and she'll have a husband long before I will. The gods can be so cruel."

If Tally had come from a greater house, Drucilla thought as Tally began another song, she would have probably married some rich nobleman from the Westerlands or the Reach. Perhaps she would have even become queen. Of course, none of that mattered now. Tally wasn't from a great house, just a small cadet branch of a Stark vassal house. Their stronghold was but a small tower along the stony northern shores of Blazewater Bay, which commanded a few acres of land and a single peasant village. Benfred Tallhart was the best match she could hope for, but deep down even Tally knew that it would never happen.

Drucilla stopped listening to Tally when she heard a shout come down from the battlements. Riders in the distance, rapidly approaching the main gate. Seven strong, he counted. Drucilla paused for a moment when she heard that, then brushed it off as nothing, assuming the sentry had simply miscounted. She stood, her face breaking into a smile. "Domeric's returned!" she told her cousins. "He's back! He's home!" She drew up her skirt and ran down to meet him. Her cousins quickly followed, and Hilda trudged down the stairs one step at a time.

Damon Dance-for-Me came galloping into the yard first, his coiled whip hanging lifelessly from his horse's saddle. The rest of his men came pouring in after him, without the satisfied smiles Drucilla had expected to see. They were always at their happiest after spilling fresh blood, and at their grimmest when it was denied from them. Yellow Dick was grumbling under his breath as his favorite little whore rested beside him, dry as an old septa. Drucilla knew then that her plan had failed, and she immediately suspected her brother of intervening.

Domeric came in next, astride Storm. Drucilla charged ahead, seeking answers from her older brother, but she came to an abrupt stop when she saw the final horse come trotting through the gate. _The seventh rider_, she thought, her eyes widening in disbelief. _The sentry hadn__'t miscounted after all_. The bastard Ramsay Snow was the final rider, coming forth on a horse red as blood that snorted with a wild temper as it trampled the mud. Drucilla fell back in line with her cousins, who looked on with great worry.

"What is he doing here?" Tansy asked her cousin as the bastard dismounted from his hot-blooded stallion. Drucilla didn't answer, merely glared ahead with contempt and suspicion, her pale pink lips drawn into a tight line.

Her expression didn't soften when her brother finally approached them; in fact, it hardened. The bastard was behind him, wearing an anxious smile, as if he thought he could fool her by playing the part of an innocent victim. One side of his face was red and swollen. The small finger on his left hand had been savagely flayed. Drucilla recognized it immediately as Skinner's work, though certainly not his best. Now Domeric was parading the bastard in front of her and her cousins, like he was doing some sort of charity by bringing a stray dog into the castle. But this stray dog was rabid and wild. This stray dog would bite him if he wasn't careful.

Tansy and Tally bowed their heads and curtsied when Domeric presented them. The bastard smiled and bowed back. "A pleasure, m'ladies."

Then Domeric continued on to his sister. His eyes softened when he saw her disappointed frown, as if begging her to forgive him for betraying her. They both knew she would be paying him a visit later, and it would not be pleasant. Domeric nervously cleared his throat and made a gesture toward her. "And, of course, Lady Drucilla."

The bastard smiled widely and called her "sister." Never before had the word sounded so foul. He came toward her and Drucilla recoiled from him like a threatened snake. "What have you done, Domeric?" she said to her brother, and then she turned and fled into the great keep.

* * *

Hilda had once told her that nobody could hurt her while she was in the Dreadfort, one of the strongest and most intimidating fortresses in the North. Even then she didn't fully believe her, because she knew it would someday come to this. Somehow the bastard would find his way inside. He would find a crack in the wall and squeeze right through. But back then she never thought her brother would be that crack. She never thought he would be the one to let him in. Now the bastard was inside, supping with the rest of her family in the small hall. By taking her brother's food and drink, he was protected by the sacred law of hospitality, the guest right. Nobody could harm him for the length of his stay, and Drucilla knew he meant to stay for a long while.

"You must eat, m'lady," said Alison. "You haven't even touched your supper." The rabbit stew was getting cold and she had yet to even break the clay casing of her baked trout. Alison picked up her spoon and did it for her, releasing a cloud of steam into the air. She leaned over and breathed in the sweet lemon scent. "It smells delicious, m'lady. If you don't eat it, I might just have to."

"Go ahead," Drucilla muttered.

Alison frowned. "Oh, please eat."

"It could be poisoned for all I know."

"Poisoned?" Alison nearly laughed at the absurdity of her claim. "By who?"

"Myranda, Violet, any one of them. They seem different now. Haven't you noticed it? They're too … _pleased_ with the situation." She nodded, remembering the smile on Myranda's face when their paths crossed in the stairway. "They've been waiting for this, haven't they? They've been waiting for their chance to strike at me."

"Nobody's going to strike at you, m'lady."

_He will. I know he will. _Drucilla made a gesture with her hand and ordered her to take the food away. Alison reluctantly obeyed and started gathering all the dishes. While she did that, Drucilla went quickly to her writing desk and scribbled a note onto a piece of parchment. By the time the servant finished clearing the table, she had finished the letter, folded it, and was melting the red wax over the candle flame. "Before you go, Alison," Drucilla said as she pressed the flayed man seal into the soft wax, "who's our fastest rider?"

"Well, … Luton, I suppose." She seemed confused and unsure.

"Good, then be sure this gets to him." Drucilla placed the letter on top of her tray. "Tell him to ride for King's Landing immediately and deliver this letter to my lord father. My lord father and nobody else. Do you understand, Alison?"

"Yes, m'lady. I'll see that he gets it."

"And stay away from the bastard," Drucilla said, bringing a look of concern to the girl's face. Drucilla didn't much care about the other serving girls, least of all Violet and Myranda, but Alison had always been a trustworthy person, honest and good. She didn't want to see her dragged into the bastard's game, whatever game that was. "Go now, and remember what I told you." Alison bowed her head and hurried out of the room.

It was hours later when Drucilla made her way to her brother's chambers, carrying a small candle to light her way. Even with the candle in her hand and the torches on the walls, the great keep was dark and cold. Drucilla climbed the stairway step by step, one hand clutching the candle and the other holding up the skirt of her dress. The shadows moved on the walls and seemed to follow her. She stopped once and turned around, staring down the empty stairway. A faint smell lingered in the air. _Reek_, thought Drucilla as melted wax dripped into the pewter candle holder. _He__'s found his way back home. _She continued on and pushed the door open. Domeric was sitting at the foot of his bed with his head in his hands.

"I expected you much sooner," he said. "I nearly fell asleep waiting for you."

"Did you? Well I apologize." She set the candle down but remained on the other side of the room. Domeric didn't move either, but he raised his head to look at her. Flickers of firelight danced across his expressionless face, making his grey eyes appear gold.

"How come you never talk about Deanna?" he finally asked, his voice quiet but firm. "Whenever someone mentions her name, you change the subject. Why?"

She lifted an eyebrow, the rest of her face a controlled mask. "You know why I don't talk about it. She's dead, Domeric. There's nothing more to say."

"And you were there with her, weren't you, Drucilla?" His sister remained silent. Domeric stood. "Tell me the truth. Were you with her when she died?" Again, she was silent. Domeric snarled and came at her, roughly seizing her by her arms. "Deanna couldn't have passed through the gates unseen, not without someone guiding her!"

Drucilla glared up at him. "You're hurting me."

His grip tightened, and he started to shake her. "Were you with her? Tell me now!"

"I was a child! Barely seven years old. Honestly, Domeric, you would sooner believe a bastard than your own sister? His word means nothing."

"_Your word means nothing!_" he hissed as the fire raged behind him, and he threw her to the floor with such force he feared his sister's frail bones would shatter upon contact. Domeric staggered back in horror. Her body hit the stone with a sickening thud, but she herself made no sound, not a cry nor a whimper. "Drucilla?" Domeric moved to help her but stopped when he saw her twitch. She arose from the ground slowly, her long hair loosened from its tight knot and collapsing around her face in tangled waves. When she was finally upright, standing proudly as a queen, she tucked the strands neatly behind her ears, picked up the candle, and strode out of the room.

She'd made it halfway down the stairwell before she collapsed against the wall and sank to the floor, tears rolling down her face. She wiped them away with her sleeve as they fell. Her body ached all over, her head was throbbing, and she could taste blood in her mouth. _The bastard, he__'s to blame for this_, she realized, looking about the stairwell in a panic. _He__'s poisoned my brother against me! _She drew her knees into her chest and rested her forehead upon them. Beside her, the candle slowly burned out, leaving her in darkness. Somewhere off in the distance a wolf howled, and Drucilla thought of Robb Stark.


	20. CHAPTER 20

**Chapter 20: Nightmares**

Drucilla didn't remember how she had gotten into her bed.

In the dense fog of her memory, she could make out the faint outline of her brother's face amidst candlelight and shadow. His smile was sad, his eyes a cloudy grey. "Forgive me," he uttered, as if the words were strangling him, and then he bent down to kiss her forehead. When he pulled away, a tear fell and landed on her cheek, warm as the summer rain. "Rest well, sister," he said, his presence fading with the dimming light, and Drucilla heard herself whimper behind her clenched jaw. _Domeric_, she might've said, _brother, stay_, but he was gone before her voice could reach him.

That night Drucilla dreamed of the flayed man, of dungeons and torture and endless screaming. She saw the pink-and-red man sitting in the great hall, upon her father's oaken chair, with a rug of wolf skin sprawled at his feet and row of torches burning behind him. Elsewhere, Reek was laughing in the darkness as his flesh rotted away and worms wiggled in and out of his empty eye sockets. In the dungeons, she saw men and women alike lying upon the torture racks, shrieking in terror as the pink-and-red men peeled away their skin with sharp knives bathed in flame. Drucilla knew their faces, every one. Benfred Tallhart, his golden hair drenched with cold seawater, taunted his torturers but cried the loudest when the hot blade hissed against his skin. Daryn Hornwood and his poor mother were kept together in one chamber as a final kindness. The old woman's body was shriveled and shrunken and missing all its fingers. She begged not for mercy but for food. The flayed men fed her generously from her own flesh, and she thanked them for it. The headless Ser Rodrick Cassell was there as well, she saw, cursing the turncloak that had betrayed him, and Cley Cerwyn lay groaning in agony with a bloody hole in his left eye. The flayed man took the skin from his face while the young boy screamed.

Then she saw him, the bastard, with a bloody knife in his hand and a wicked grin on his face. Beside him, a skinless man lay bound to the wooden rack with a burlap sack over his head. The bastard ripped off the sack, and Drucilla screamed and clawed at her face in terror. _"Those eyes!"_ she cried. _"Those eyes!" _

The grey eyes of her brother, staring without a face. The bastard standing in front of her, smiling. He handed her the blade just as she woke suddenly, screaming her brother's name into the night. Her face was pale and frightened. For a moment she saw her hands stained red with her brother's blood, felt the slickness of it between her fingers, but it was gone with one blink of her eyes. Was this a nightmare, she wondered, or the beginnings of madness? _Aunt Rowenna, Grandmother … Is this how it starts? A sickness of the mind. Maester Uthor said it claimed them all. It comes from the blood. Bad blood … _

And she wasn't alone, she saw. The flayed man was standing by her window with the pale moonlight shining upon him. One breath from his lips snuffed out the fire in her hearth; then the darkness came, a bitter wind swept through the clattering shutters, and Drucilla smelled death in the room.

"Why do you show me such things?" she asked. "_Why?_ Is this the gods' will? Is my brother meant to die by the bastard's hand?"

The flayed man had no answer; instead, he turned and walked out of the room. Drucilla quickly followed, throwing on her robe and belting it as she hurried out, but the flayed man had vanished before she reached the door. _He was never there at all_, her brother whispered. _You're losing your wits, sister_, but Drucilla pressed on despite him.

By the time she left the great keep, the night winds were rising and the summer snows were drifting down in flurries of white. Further ahead she could hear the guardsmen stumbling toward the barracks, laughing and murmuring songs of merriment. Somewhere above her stood two sentries on the wall. They complained about the cold and Drucilla chided them for it. Any man who shivered in the summer would never survive the winter, she knew. _And winter is coming. _No truer words had ever been spoken.

The godswood was shrouded in darkness, save for the faint moonlight that shone through the dense canopy of sleeping sentinel trees, their grey-green needles glistening like a thousand sharp swords. Here there were no paths to lead you safely through the wood, but Drucilla knew the way by heart; her feet were guided by a deep ancestral instinct passed down from generation to generation, an instinct which her sister had never possessed and her brother had long since forgotten, she feared.

And yet, somehow, there was already someone waiting before the silent weirwood when Drucilla arrived. He was standing upon the snow-dusted grass with a canopy of red leaves above him. _Domeric, _Drucilla thought with great relief._ He couldn't sleep either. _She gathered her nightdress and rushed forward, calling him "Dom" as she had when they were children, but she stopped when the man turned around. From behind he had looked exactly like Domeric, with his thick black hair and broad shoulders, but his face was hard, his smile twisted and cruel._ The bastard has come to haunt me again. Gods, let this be another dream! Let me wake to find him gone, dead and flayed and hanging in some dark room with his Reek at his side!_

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her chin raised proudly, though her hands were shaking underneath her sleeves. Strangely, she saw that his hands were trembling too, and not from the cold. His smile had died along with the torch he clutched in his hand. Then, for the first time, Drucilla saw fear in his grey eyes. The bastard seemed to be looking right through her, glaring at something hidden in the tall trees. Drucilla glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing, only darkness and shadow. The bastard snarled and gave his back to her. The silent weirwood stood between them, watching and listening.

"I couldn't sleep," the bastard answered after a while. The howling wind tore at his leathers and bit at his pale, pale skin, but he never once shivered. He simply stood there in silence, staring at the carven face as if it were speaking to him. "I never sleep, not anymore." The dark circles underneath his sunken eyes proved his words to be true.

Drucilla joined him beneath the weirwood. In the presence of the gods, she felt no fear. She knew he would not harm her, not while those eyes were watching him. "Who told you about Deanna?" she asked.

He chuckled lightly, but even his laughter seemed strained. "As it happens, sister, you're not very popular among the common folk. They like to talk, especially about Lord Bolton's wicked little daughter, and I'm a very, very good listener."

Suddenly, Drucilla heard a noise in the distance. _He's not alone! _She whipped around and peered into the darkness. There was someone else out there, lurking among the trees. If she strained her eyes, she could almost see it — the shadow of a man hunched over and hobbling behind the sentinels. _Reek! No, it can't be! _He was whispering her name and humming _that song_, the one about the bear and his maiden fair. She scarcely remembered the words, but that haunting melody was one she would never forget. It had been her favorite once, long ago, before Domeric had gone away and when Deanna was still alive, but now Drucilla couldn't bear to hear it performed in her father's halls. And the smell of wildflowers, she couldn't stand that either because it made her think of that day, that dreadful day when Reek had come to watch her play. _Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair! _He had been singing to her as he approached, his voice light and pleasant. And he was smiling, she remembered, with rotten teeth. The sweet floral aroma filled the summer air as he danced and sang and kicked the air, going here and going there. But it stopped, the sweetness, and it ended there. _The bear, the bear!_ And the flowers fell and wilted on the stair. _He licked the honey from her hair!_

Drucilla covered her ears and backed away. The bastard followed her with his eyes and asked, "Does my Reek frighten you, sister? No need to worry, he won't come unless I command it. He's a good dog."

Drucilla glared at the bastard, then glanced once more at Reek, just to make sure he hadn't crept closer, but the filthy creature kept his distance, as his master said he would. "Why did you bring him here?"

"He followed me. I simply couldn't keep him away. You see, sister, Reek likes to talk as well, and he had so much to say about you. He told me what he did to you when you were a girl, how he used to creep into your room at night and watch you sleep and dream and cry out for your brother. _Dom! … Dom! …_ But your brother wasn't there, was he? He left you all alone in this dreary castle, and now he's come back a man full grown, a stranger to you. That must be heartbreaking."

Drucilla refused to listen. His words were poison. "Why are you here, really? You have no claim to the Dreadfort. When my lord father returns, he'll put you to the sword — or worse. Perhaps he'll let Skinner finish what he's already started." She smirked when she saw the fear creep back into his eyes, his skinless finger twitching at his side. "Now you've known the kiss of his blade, and you won't soon forget it. There's nothing more painful, I hear, though to be fair I've never seen a proper flaying myself, only what remains, what little remains. Maybe I'll watch next time. Would you like that, bastard? I know I would." She took three strong strides and turned. "Your lies may have tricked my brother, but they will not work on me. I know what you mean to do."

"And what do I mean to do?" He shook his head, grinning like this was all a game to him, a game he'd already won, and Drucilla remembered her dream. Her brother's eyes. The bastard's smile. The knife so sharp. "No, no, you haven't the slightest idea what I mean to do. But you will, soon enough."

Behind him, the weirwood appeared to be laughing.


	21. CHAPTER 21

**Chapter 21: Reek**

After nearly a fortnight of regular visits to her bedchamber, Maester Uthor had quickly become an annoyance to Drucilla.

He served her three hearty meals a day: thick stews, salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and turnip greens, and meats so red they bled on her plate. But it was for her own good, he liked to remind her. "It will bring the color back to your cheeks and put some meat on those bones." As if that made it go down any easier. In truth, it was more food than Drucilla could stomach, but the old man sat there in his chair and watched her swallow bite after bite and wash it down with a flagon of red wine. For all his efforts, Drucilla had gained one stone and that pleased him greatly. _He wants to see me fat and rosy-cheeked like some helpless babe. _At night, he provided her with sweetmilk and dreamwine to mend her frayed nerves and send her into a deep, dreamless sleep, … only it was never dreamless. If anything, the maester's poisons made her dreams worse, more difficult to restrain. Ofttimes they would seep into the day, turning her waking hours into nightmares so vivid she would question the truth of every glance, but neither the maester nor her brother seemed to care. Her brother didn't trust her anymore, not after that night.

It was foolish of her to think she could kill the bastard herself, yet the leeches had made the plan sound so sweet when they whispered it to her. She should have known better than to trust those blood-drinkers. One of the guardsmen (Sour Alyn, she guessed, though he had a different face each time she tried to remember) had found her in the bastard's bedchamber with a dagger in her hand. _If I had been quicker, I might__'ve been able to do it, but the sweetmilk had dulled my senses so … I probably would have missed and stabbed the pillow. _The guardsman took her wrists, his grip tight as iron shackles, and Drucilla saw the bastard smiling at her from his bed. _I__'d played right into his hand. Stupid, stupid girl!_ When Domeric found out what she'd tried to do, he put her on bed rest and sent Maester Uthor to attend her, put guards at her door day and night. He might as well have thrown her into the Torturer's Tower.

"You're not well, sister," he had said with a pitiful look in his eyes. _Of course I__'m not well_, she had wanted to scream back. _You__'ve brought the bastard to my home, and that thing followed him! _"You need to rest." _I need to kill him. I need to kill him before he before he kills me. _But he had taken her knives, nearly destroyed her bedchamber to find them all.

Still, he'd missed one, and Drucilla wasn't about to let him get his hands on it. She'd hidden it in a place where he would never find it.

"My brother thinks I'm going mad," she told Alison as she broke her fast at the small table. Willow had the meal ready as soon as Drucilla arose from her bed: warm bread with butter and blueberry preserves, a soft-boiled egg, and honeyed tea. Alison sat across from her and nibbled quietly on the salt fish Drucilla refused to eat. Sara and Jeyne were busy preparing her bath beside the fire, a task normally reserved for Violet and Myranda, but Drucilla forbade them from entering her chambers. She didn't like the way they smiled at her now.

"I'm sure he doesn't," Alison said. "He's just worried about you is all. You've been under a great deal of stress, m'lady."

"Yes, I suppose." Drucilla took her spoon and gave the egg a sharp _tap, tap, tap_. "Maester Uthor says we Bolton women have a history of madness. My aunt Rowenna was mad, or at least that's what I heard. She would go around talking to shadows, spend days in the godswood without taking food or drink, and then one day she vanished — _poof! _— just like that. She left the Dreadfort and sailed across the narrow sea, to the shadow city of Asshai. Why? Only the gods know for certain. It happened so very long ago, long before I was born, before even Domeric was born. Father was just a boy back then. And nobody has seen her since." Drucilla paused and turned. Jeyne and Sara had stopped to listen. She gave them both a stern look, and they bent their heads and resumed their work. "But a few years back," she continued, "Father received a letter from her. He said to burn it, but I snuck a peek before the flames took it. She's forsaken the old gods for this red god, and now she's dawned red robes and talks to fire. Seems a queer thing to do, doesn't it?"

"A very queer thing," Alison agreed, putting a hand to her chest. She seemed short of breath and in need of a drink, so Drucilla poured her a cup from her own flagon. Alison thanked her for it.

"Or maybe not," Drucilla said after a while. She gazed at the crackling fire and wondered. "Maybe it's a perfectly natural thing to do. She's not the first Bolton to leave the Dreadfort, you know, and I doubt she'll be the last. I have uncles, aunts, cousins I've never once met. Some have converted to the Faith, I heard, and become septons, septas, or even silent sisters. Others are probably maesters now, off serving other houses. Most, however, have joined the Night's Watch. Isn't that odd? They'd rather take the black and die beyond the Wall than stay here. Why? What drove them away?"

Alison frowned. "I wish I knew, m'lady, but I suppose I can't blame them for wanting to leave. This castle can be so suffocating, especially when the sun goes away for so long. Why, I can't even remember the last time I saw the sun. Weeks it feels like." She stared out the window with envy and sighed. "But you get used to it, I suppose. You have to." She forced a smile. "But you needn't worry about it, m'lady. Soon you'll be leaving too, for King's Landing!" That had seemed to lift her spirits, as if she was the one leaving. Alison stood, gathered up the breakfast dishes and carried them out while humming to herself.

When the door closed, Drucilla looked across the table and saw the flayed man sitting in Alison's chair. His cold, black eyes drew her in and tried to drown her. The shadows moved and the fire whispered her name, speaking a language of ash, smoke, and flame. Drucilla quietly sipped her tea and thought, _I__'m losing my mind. _

"M'lady," said Jeyne, "your bath is ready."

Drucilla put down her cup and left the table.

* * *

When Maester Uthor came to visit her later that morning, she told him what had happened. He said she'd been shut away too long, and now her fragile mind was growing restless and playing tricks on her to keep itself entertained. Tricks, he'd called them, as if she was still a child who needed a gentle explanation. Drucilla knew what they were. The maester was doing her no service by lying to her. _Then again, Aunt Barbrey had warned me never to trust maesters_. They were little grey rats who scurried around and whispered into their lords' ears. One had whispered into Lord Rickard Stark's ear, she'd said, and stole her beloved Brandon Stark from her before they could wed. Not that it much mattered now. Both Rickard and Brandon were dead, killed by the Mad King.

Hilda leaned over and studied Drucilla's work. "Very good, Drucilla," she praised loudly enough for Drucilla's cousins to hear. "Simply lovely, isn't it, ladies? Such a talent." Drucilla looked herself and frowned. Her stitches were crooked, every one, and she could barely hold the needle still. Was the sweetmilk to blame? Or was it the dreamwine? Drucilla put down her needle and clenched her trembling hand into a fist to steady it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her cousins staring, but they turned away once Drucilla looked at them.

Her brother was outside in the training yard with the bastard and a handful of guardsmen. She could hear Domeric's laughter and the bastard's praise; then came the steady _thwack, thwack, thwack_ of arrows hitting the wooden target. Domeric had no talent for the bow, she saw, and missed most of his marks. The bastard complimented him nevertheless, slapped him on the shoulder and called him brother. It made her sick to see them getting along so well. They spent every day together: riding along the banks of the Weeping Water, hunting through the Dreadwoods, drilling in the training yard. The bastard even sat beside him while he held court in the great hall, a great dishonor to their lord father. _He__'s made a mockery of us all. _

"Drucilla." Tally smiled sweetly and showed her the dress she had just started sewing. "What do you think of the color? Pretty, isn't it? It'll bring out the blue in your eyes, I think." Drucilla found herself nodding along, even though there was no blue in her grey eyes, not even a speck of it. Tally must have known that. Everyone else did. She was just trying to find something nice to say, something to fill the silence.

If given the choice, Drucilla would have preferred silence.

As a kind gesture, Tally and her younger sister were making new dresses for Drucilla to wear in King's Landing: beautiful gowns of colored silk. They had arrived just three days before, in an ornate wagon of crimson and gold drawn by two white-and-brown horses. Tally had squealed when it entered the yard, its wooden wheels spinning in the mud, splashing through rain puddles. "Of course it's raining," she'd noted with a groan. It was always raining in the Dreadfort. Two riders followed at its flanks, their plate armor a deep crimson and more expensive than even her lord father's great armor. One proudly carried the Lannister banner: a gold lion in a field of crimson. Drucilla saw it and thought of all the noblewomen who dreamed of being draped in those colors. Soon they would become hers, she realized now, and she would take the golden lion as her arms. But it seemed wrong to completely abandon her house's arms. Instead, she would have liked to wed the two. _A flayed lion, perhaps_. She could already hear the gasps of the courtiers. It made her smile.

When the party had stopped, a handsome young man garbed in rich velvets stepped out of the wagon and presented himself to her brother. Then he smiled at Drucilla and bowed. Tally had said he looked like a prince, with his golden curls and emerald green eyes, but he was no prince, just a Lannister squire with a gift from his lord, Tyrion Lannister: bundles of silk and fine jewels of every color. In a letter to his betrothed, he had said that he was counting the days until Drucilla would join him in King's Landing, but Drucilla doubted the truth of his words. She'd never met the halfman, yet somehow she knew he hadn't written that letter, so instead of replying, as Hilda had urged her to do, Drucilla burned the letter after reading it. She would have burned the silk too if her cousins hadn't insisted on using it.

Tansy held the silk against her cheek, enamored with the softness of it. "Oh, Drucilla, you'll look like a real courtier in silk this fine. I can just see you sitting in the garden with Her Grace and Princess Myrcella, the warm afternoon sun shining down on you, sipping tea and eating cakes and tarts of every flavor." Her stomach growled and her face flushed a soft pink. "You'll attend feasts and masked balls and so many tourneys, … and you'll get to meet the prince!" She gave a long, wistful sigh. She'd never seen Prince Joffrey herself, none of them had, but she knew he was handsome. In the songs, all the princes were handsome and gentle and strong. "If only you could wed _him_, cousin. Do you suppose that could happen, Hilda? I know she's supposed to marry the Imp, but imagine if Prince Joffrey met her and fell so deeply in love that he just had to marry her; then Drucilla would become queen of all the realm!"

Tally made a sickened face. "Gods help us all," she said, snickering. Tansy was too kind to laugh along with her, and Hilda certainly didn't find it amusing.

"That's quite enough, Tally," Hilda said. "Drucilla will happily wed Lord Tyrion, as her lord father so wisely arranged. You both should be supportive of her, as she will be for you when you wed. Isn't that right, Drucilla?"

"No," Drucilla muttered as her needle fumbled in and out of the fabric. After two more unsuccessful passes, she gave up and set her needlework aside. She looked to the godswood beyond. How she longed to lose herself among the trees. "To be quite honest, I don't really care about any of it. The gowns, the balls, the Lannisters: the Others can take them all, and I should be glad for it."

Hilda's jaw dropped. Her cousins sat with startled expressions. Outside, the bastard was laughing, and those horrid arrows kept thwack, thwack, thwacking! She could feel them slowly chipping away at her skull: _crack! crack! crack! _She gripped her head and squeezed her eyes shut. _Gods, make them stop! _It was all too much for Drucilla to handle. She pushed herself to her feet and walked out of the room as quickly as her legs would take her.

The godswood was calling to her. There, upon a grassy hill surrounded by moss-covered stone, Drucilla knelt before the weirwood and prayed for her father's swift return from the capital. _Why has he not come? _she wondered, looking to the gods for answers. Luton had delivered her letter, placed it in her father's very hand just as she'd commanded, yet he rode back alone, without even a word from him. It had been almost a month now, and Drucilla feared he had abandoned his children to suffer their mistake alone. _He has a reason for everything, doesn__'t he?_ _He warned Domeric not to seek out the bastard, and in the end he knew Domeric would not heed his warning. Domeric always wanted a brother, always. Father was testing him, and Domeric has failed. _She felt a sickness in her stomach. _Is this it? Will he not come to save us?_

The weirwood wept tears of blood.

Then a whisper came sweeping through the godswood, so soft Drucilla might have mistaken it for the wind — might have, if it hadn't spoken her name. _Little lady_, it had called her. The voice was unmistakable. Drucilla stood, her skirt rustling beneath her. "Who's there?" she demanded. "Show yourself!"

She heard laughter behind her, shrill and mocking. Drucilla whipped around and caught sight of Reek fleeing with a slow, hobbled gait. He took two strides and disappeared behind the wall of trees. But he would come back, she knew. Reek always came back. Drucilla dropped to the ground and shoved her hand into the hollow of the weirwood, feeling around the leaf litter and the dirt where the beetles and biters made their homes, and found the knife. She ripped it out and grasped it tightly in her hand. "Reek!" she screamed. "Where are you, Reek?"

_Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair … the maid with honey in her hair!  
_

Suddenly, a hand shot out of the forest and grabbed her shoulder. "No!" Drucilla screamed and recoiled, then lashed out with her knife. She heard the sound of steel sinking into meaty flesh, saw the red bud blossoming around the blade. _The gods had made Reek stink_, Drucilla remembered,_ so that men would know his soul is rotting. Even his blood is foul, … and yet I smell nothing. _Terror seized her, cutting into her chest like a dagger. _Nothing!_ _I smell nothing! It__'s not Reek! It can't be Reek!_

Then that voice whispered her name again. She could hear it so clearly now. _Not Reek … Not Reek …_

And Tally whimpered.


	22. CHAPTER 22

**Chapter 22: Kinslayer**

On that day, a raven had come flapping over the tall towers with joyous news: the brave and honorable Ser Kyle Condon had asked for Tally's hand in marriage. Tally could scarcely believe it when her lord cousin delivered the message himself. "Can it be true?" she had asked, overcome with doubt. _Have the gods answered my prayers at last?_ It seemed too good to be true, but she prayed with all her heart that it was. It was a smart match, better than she could have ever hoped for. "Do you think Lord Bolton will agree to it?"

"Of course he will!" Tansy had blurted out before Hilda could answer. "Tally, you're going to be married!" She grabbed her older sister's hand and led her back to the covered bench. "Come, come, read the letter aloud. I want to hear what he wrote, every word!"

Tally blushed and held the letter against her chest. "Should I?" After all, she hadn't wanted to sound too eager. Her little sister gave an encouraging nod, then sat down at her feet. Tally smiled and patted the top of her head. "Very well, then. From the beginning."

Tansy had begged her to read the letter over and over, until Hilda had gotten sick of the sound and made them stop. By then, Tally knew it by heart. She had been reciting it to herself as she walked through the godswood later that day.

"Off with you, child!" Hilda had said, sweeping her away with her hands. "Go thank the gods for answering your prayers. I shouldn't have to remind you."

No, Tally hadn't needed reminding. She had every intention of sitting vigil all day and night to show the gods how grateful she was. Ser Kyle Condon held a modest keep on the western branch of the White Knife, on the lands of his liege lord, Medger Cerwyn. Modest, yes, but it was far better than the Dreadfort. Anywhere was better than the Dreadfort, Tally had thought.

_And I had almost escaped_, she was thinking now as she lay on the ground with the red leaves falling around her. _It's not fair _..._ not fair at all. _Tally looked at the sky. It seemed about to rain again. She felt a drop roll down her cheek, warm and salty on her tongue._ Oh, no more rain, please. I cannot bear the sight of rain and clouds. Give me sunlight for once, just once. _

She thought of Ser Kyle Condon and how they had danced in the great hall on her cousin's name day. _He said I was the prettiest girl in the room, and he kissed my hand. _That had made her smile.

She reached for the letter but felt a wet hole in its place. _No! _Her brown eyes flooded with tears._ No, not yet! Not yet! _

Now those sweet words seemed to be slipping away from her, seeping through the webs of her fingers and soaking the dirt beneath her.

Then the rain came. Its kiss was cold.

"I'm sorry," Drucilla whispered as she sat beside the weirwood, curled into a tight ball. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Beside her lay the knife. By then the rain had already washed away the blood, yet the stain of her crime remained on her hands. No matter how hard she tried, she could not seem to get them clean.

_Everyone will know_, she thought as she stared down at them. _Everyone will see. Domeric, what will he think when he finds out what I__'__ve done? What will he do? _She panicked at the thought, then looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was coming. The rain pitter-pattered against the forest canopy. The wind moaned into her ear, _Kinslayer!_

Drucilla clutched her head. _But it was an accident! I didn__'__t mean to stab her! Reek was there. That smelly, foul creature, he's always lurking about! _It had all happened so fast, and the maester, he had poisoned her mind with all his potions._ And Tally snuck up behind me, crept up without a sound. How was I supposed to hear her? How was I supposed to hear her when she was so quiet like that? It wasn__'__t my fault! He has to believe that!_

_But he won__'__t, _answered the weirwood. Its eyes were shrewd and accusing. _He won__'__t believe it was an accident, not after Deanna ... _

Drucilla gasped and staggered to her feet. The red leaves, those bloody hands, they all seemed to be pointing at her, judging her, condemning her. _Kinslayer_, they called her.

_No! _she nearly screamed. _That wasn__'__t my fault! _

In the silence someone called, "Drucilla!" and she flinched at the sound. It was Hilda. She had entered the godswood. "Drucilla! Tally! Do come inside now, ladies. You've both prayed enough for one day, don't you agree? No need to keep troubling the gods ..." The old woman sounded tired and out of breath. "Drucilla? Tally? Are you listening to me? You know, it's quite rude to ignore those speaking to you. Sometimes I think neither of you pays attention during your lessons. You both think you know everything. Such stubborn children, the pair of you. In my day, ladies listened to their governesses and respected them ..."

Drucilla didn't know what to do. Slow as she was, it wouldn't be long before her governess reached the heart of the forest. Drucilla wouldn't be able to hide the body in time. It was too heavy, and she was still too weak. Twice she had tried to drag her by her arms, but she could only make it a few steps before fatigue set in and she had to stop.

All the while, Tally stared up at her with those empty brown eyes.

One, only once, Drucilla stared back. _Everyone thought Tally was pretty_, she remembered, _as pretty as a Lannister, but not anymore. Soon she will be ugly, and her skin will turn black, and her lips will peel back from her teeth. She__'__ll be as ugly as the others, as Lady Marilynn and Deanna and all those dead babes. Ser Kyle Condon won't find her beautiful then. Nobody will. _

"Oh dear," someone said from behind her. Drucilla looked over her shoulder and saw Reek peeking out from behind one of the trees. He tossed his head to one side. "What trouble has the little lady gotten herself into now?" He was looking at Tally's dead body. Drucilla moved to block his view, and that made him chuckle. "What will you do now?" he asked. "It won't be long before she finds the body, and she'll tell everyone what you did. Not even Lord Bolton will be able to save you then. You'll be ruined, spoiled, _rotten_."

_And those whispers, they__'__ll reach Winterfell faster than any raven. What will Robb think? _She thought of what he had said to her in the library tower. _I can__'__t help but wonder if I'd be making a grave mistake to trust you. _Whatever doubt he still held in his heart would fester and spread, and he would never speak kindly of her again.

"But that doesn't have to happen, little lady." Reek gave a crooked, yellow smile and began his approach. Three flies buzzed overhead; one landed on his drooping eyelid. "I can help you, make this all go away like another bad dream. It'll be our little secret."

Drucilla hadn't realized that Reek had bent down, not until she'd heard the sounds. When she looked, he was running his dirty hands through Tally's beautiful blonde hair. "Such a beauty," she heard him say. "Such a waste." He touched her cheek with his bony finger and drained all the color from her flesh. The flies came next, swarming around her. She saw one burrow into her ear.

"No! No! Get away from her!" Drucilla lunged at Reek and pushed him to the ground, then swatted the flies away. "You keep your filthy hands off her, you disgusting, dirty creature!"

Reek cowered beneath her. "I'm only trying to help, m'lady! Only help, I swear it! Please, don't punish me! Have mercy on your Reek." He threw himself at her feet and kissed her muddy boots. "I live to serve m'lady and her noble house."

Drucilla kicked him away. "Then serve me," she said. She knew she would regret these words, but she saw no other choice. "Take her away. Make sure no one sees you ... and treat her gently."

Reek nodded. "Don't you worry, little lady, I'll take care of this mess." He lifted Tally from the ground gently, like a man carrying away his maiden bride. "Just leave it to Reek. He knows what to do." Then he turned and strode off with Tally in his arms. Something small and white fell out of Tally's coat, Drucilla saw, and drifted past her limp, swinging hand. Reek smushed it into the mud with his boot.

_Tally deserves better than this, _Drucilla thought._ She was highborn, a noble daughter of House Ryswell, and my blood kin. By giving her to Reek, I am shaming her greatly. No funeral. No place in our crypts. Just some hole in the ground, if Reek is kind enough to grant her that. _She wiped away a tear with her coat sleeve as she walked away._ I__'__ve denied her a proper burial, and for that the gods will never forgive me._


	23. CHAPTER 23

**Chapter 23: Send the Ravens**

The stony hill stood high above a vast sea of green, endless in every direction. From there, Domeric Bolton gazed woefully upon the ancient forest of his ancestral seat, and he wondered how a young maid of fifteen could survive out there alone.

The Dreadwoods were untamed and unforgiving, he knew. Hilda had once described them as a place caught between two worlds, stuck somewhere between the land of the living and the dead. Those who ventured too far into the Dreadwoods seldom returned, she had said. Perhaps that was why the huntsmen were so reluctant to venture any further on this day, as the sun was setting and the bitter night winds were rising.

Tally was three days gone when a woodsman had entered the great hall with an urgent message for his lordship. By all the gods, the old and the new, he swore that he had seen Reek sneaking through the Dreadwoods in the early morning hours.

"Frightened my boy half to death, m'lord. He thought it was a corpse come to life."

_A corpse come to life, that was what Deanna had called him when she first saw him._ Domeric glared down from his father's great chair. Uncomfortable as it was, it made him feel strong. "And you're certain it was Reek."

The woodsman laughed a deep, throaty laugh. "Aye, m'lord. Hard to mistake Reek for anyone else. It's the smell of him that gives him away. That stench of his, it's hard to forget. You know it when you smell it."

Domeric knew he spoke true. Even now, after so many years, he could still remember the smell of Reek. He was just a boy when the servant first arrived at the Dreadfort, looking for whatever work his lord father could spare. Deanna had screamed when she saw him, called him a monster. Their mother scolded her immediately, having taken pity upon the poor man. If not for her, Reek would have been sent away. Lord Bolton saw no use for him. She suggested he work in the pigpens, and her lord husband was kind enough to allow it.

_Curse your merciful heart, Mother. You've doomed us all to suffer this horrid creature._ Domeric sighed. But how was she to know the man was so foul? Nobody knew what he really was. Nobody. He was just silly old Reek, the clumsy oaf who wore flowers in his hair like a maid. Sometimes he would dance and sing for his sisters in the courtyard or perform plays for a few coppers. He thought himself a mummer, but to everyone else he was a fool.

And now Domeric couldn't help but wonder, _Was it all a guise? Is that how he managed for so long?_ The signs were all there. Domeric had been blind to them as a child, but as he thought back on it now, it was all so painfully clear.

_Deanna and Drucilla ... their rooms always smelled of Reek._

That had made Domeric's stomach churn. A great pain came over his body, making him go stiff all over. He dropped his head into his hands and muttered, "I've made a mess of everything."

When his father had named him castellan, he thought ruling would come naturally to him, that he would be a wiser and fairer lord than any Bolton before him. He'd never been more wrong in his life. He had won over the hearts of the common people, yes, but at what cost? His family was falling apart before his eyes.

Between the webbing of his fingers, Domeric could see the dying light of the fire. Horace Heartcleaver had walked off to fetch more wood some time ago. The rest of the guardsmen had made camp nearby. Damon and his men were tossing dice and drinking sour wine beneath the night sky while three grey rabbits roasted over the fire.

"They all think me a fool," Domeric said as he watched them. "It's all hopeless, right? You've heard them say it. You've heard them mocking me behind my back. Laughing behind my back." They were laughing now, as Sour Alyn and Grunt threw knives at a faraway target. "Do you agree with them, brother? Am I foolish to keep searching for her?"

His brother's smile was kind. "No, you're not foolish." Ramsay took a swig from his wineskin before offering it to his younger brother. Domeric shook his aching head, said he had no want for wine. Ramsay frowned. "But if I'm being honest, I don't entirely disagree with them. It's been four days now, nearing five. Even if we do manage to find Tally, the odds of us finding her alive are ... slim, I'm sorry to say." There was no gentler way to put it. "She _is_ probably dead."

"Dead," Domeric whispered, his chest tightening at the very utterance of the word. It made him think of his darling sister floating in the Weeping Water, cold and pale and stiff. Alone. She had suffered all alone. _And it's all my fault._

"I should have protected them," he said. "A brother is supposed to protect his sisters, isn't he? But I abandoned them both. Now Deanna sleeps in the crypts, and Drucilla is ... slipping away, I fear."

So vividly he remembered the night Drucilla had tried to kill their brother in his sleep. The madness he saw in her grey eyes made him cold all over. It was almost inhuman, the look of them. The guardsman had her arms twisted behind her, and she was thrashing about and uttering nonsense. Then she cried out suddenly in pain. _Stop!_ Domeric yelled. _Let her go! You're hurting her!_ and he saw her collapse to the floor.

Domeric shook away the memory. "She's very impressionable, my sister, and so _fragile_. You wouldn't think that by looking at her, but she is, I promise you. Father knows it too — better than anyone, I'm afraid. Little by little, he has broken her and remade her in his image. He doesn't care if it kills her in the end. And it will kill her, sooner or later." He snatched the wineskin out of his brother's hand and took a long drink. The wine was warm and bitter, but he had his fill and then tossed it back.

"That's why I'm sending her away," he went on as he wiped his mouth dry. "After my father left, I wrote to Lord Horton and asked him to foster Drucilla in Redfort. I received his response a few days ago." At that, he smiled. "By the time my father returns from King's Landing, Drucilla will already be on a ship to the Vale. She's to marry one of Lord Horton's sons, whichever he finds the most suitable." Jasper, he prayed, his eldest son and heir to Redfort. He was a true knight, honorable and strong, compassionate and brave. He would be kind to her. He would keep her safe.

"You're ... going to send her away?" Ramsay said, his eyes fixed in a queer expression. They were eerily focused, Domeric saw, sharp as daggers and shimmering in the dying firelight. "Surely she won't like that." It sounded more like a threat than an assumption, Domeric thought, but perhaps he had taken too much wine.

"No," he agreed, "I don't suppose she will."

That night, Domeric did not rest his eyes until his brother had fallen into a deep sleep. Even with Horace Heartcleaver sitting between them, his greatsword at the ready, he did not feel safe. Was the forest somehow to blame? Was this a wood witch's curse or the whispers of restless souls filling his heart with such unease?

Or, perhaps, was his sister right all along?

The uncertainty haunted him as he slept, looming in the back of his mind like some great ominous shadow. It even consumed his dreams. He saw his brother stepping out of the Weeping Water, drenched in blood, while the river went up in flames. He saw Drucilla standing in the godswood with Ramsay at her side, draped in the colors of their house, with a crown of red leaves atop her head. Behind them, all the trees were dead, white and frozen to the root.

Suddenly, the sky darkened, and a fierce winter gale came tearing through the trees. A hundred red hands scattered to the wind. The great weirwood died, and the eyes of winter opened.

* * *

Morning broke over the hills and spilled into the godswood, where Drucilla slept. She had dozed off sometime during the twilight hours, as she was whispering her prayers. Tansy had fallen asleep too, with her head on Drucilla's lap. Drucilla had been stroking the top of her head while her cousin slept, smiling in the moonlight.

"I saw Tally," Tansy had said the night before. "She was on a ship with golden sails, sailing across the sea with the wind in her hair. She was happy, Drucilla. She finally got to leave this place." Tears had filled her eyes. Now they were frozen on her pink cheeks. "Do you think it's possible, Drucilla? Is Tally safe and sailing somewhere beautiful?"

_No_, Drucilla had thought, _there is no beauty where she is, only a cold darkness_, but she said to Tansy, "Perhaps, sweetling, but we should keep praying for her in any case. Wherever she is, she'd want to have our prayers." She had sounded genuine, so genuine she had nearly fooled herself into thinking it was true.

Now Drucilla was waking to the toll of a bell, the same toll she had heard six years ago when that fisherman pulled Deanna from the river. It was a deep, brassy sound that echoed through the quiet godswood.

She shook her cousin awake. "Tansy, do you hear that?" _Or are the gods tormenting me?_

Tansy yawned and rubbed her tired eyes with her fist. "What is it? Why are they ringing the bells? Have they returned already? _Did they find Tally?_" She staggered to her feet and spun around, her legs wobbling beneath her. Drucilla had tried to stop her, but as soon as she regained her balance, she took off running.

_No_, Drucilla thought._ Can't she hear the panic in the bell's toll? Such distress, it can only mean one thing._

The godswood was nothing more than splotches of green and brown as Drucilla ran with the wind against her. _No! Please, gods, no! Don't let it be true. Don't let this be your punishment._

In the middle bailey, Ben Bones was struggling to get his barking dogs back into the kennels. One growled and nipped at his fingers when he got too close. If it had been anyone else, the bitch would have taken the whole hand. The horses were restless too, Drucilla saw, and Storm was missing from his stall.

_And where is the rider? _Drucilla crossed the drawbridge over the dry moat and entered the great keep.

She pushed her way up the stairs. As she ascended, servants were running past her, too swept up in their jobs to pay her the slightest courtesy. Some had pitchers and bowls filled with water. Others carried rags soiled with blood.

Drucilla felt her palms dampen. _No, this cannot be. This is not how my brother will die! Not this day. Not like this._

Sour Alyn and Grunt were posted outside the door of the sickroom. "I should take your swords," she told them, with steel in her voice. _And if my brother dies, I'll take their heads._ She could make it so. _The Dreadfort is mine now._

The bells had finally stopped their ringing, leaving Drucilla in a surreal silence as she entered the room. There, her elder brother lay upon the sickbed, naked but for a few rags as the servants attempted to clean the wounds and stop the bleeding. And there was so much blood, seeping from more open wounds than Drucilla could count. Some seemed to be coming from nowhere at all.

Lady Bolton was standing beside him, wailing, "My son! My son! They've killed my son!"

_His face is so bruised and bloody_, Drucilla thought, _it doesn't even look like him. Are we certain it's Domeric and not some imposter? _She forced her eyes away, unable to look any longer.

The bastard was standing in the corner of the room. "What are _you_ doing here?" Drucilla said to him. Her brother lay dying, and he had the nerve to stand there and watch, with his blood all over him.

"Drucilla, no!" Maester Uthor cried out from her brother's bedside, but Drucilla had caught him already. She reached up and slapped the bastard hard across the face. "What did you do?" She hit him again. His cheek began to redden. "_What did you do?_" She grabbed his arms and shoved him toward the door, then shouted for the guards. "Seize him! Put him in irons! I want him thrown in a cell! _The bastard has tried to murder my brother!_"

She flinched when she felt the maester's hand on her shoulder. "Please, my lady, do not make such hasty decisions. Nobody has tried to murder your brother. He had a fall. His men saw him fall. It was an accident."

"No," Drucilla said weakly. The bastard was walking freely out the door. The guards weren't even trying to stop him. _He did it. I know he did it._ "When have you ever known Domeric to fall from a horse? He's a natural-born rider, better than anyone! If he fell, it is because someone made him fall." She nodded to herself. "Yes, someone made him fall." She glanced about the room, searching for her next plan of action. "Maester Uthor, I want you to send word to my father and all the Northern houses. Tell them the bastard Ramsay Snow has attempted to murder Roose Bolton's son and heir. Tell them the bastard sits in a cell, awaiting Lord Bolton's justice."

The maester said, "I cannot do that, my lady. Think of what you're saying." His voice softened. "I know you've been under a great deal of stress, my lady, but you're not thinking clearly. You're not yourself. Perhaps you should go rest your head, and I'll—"

Drucilla whipped around. "Maester Uthor, you serve the Dreadfort, yes?"

The maester nodded solemnly.

"Then you will do as your lady commands. Send the ravens."

* * *

**We're getting close to the end of Part I! Sorry this chapter took me so long. November was a really busy month for me, work-wise, and this chapter was a real pain to write. I wrote three different full-length versions, I swear.**

**Anyway, in the next chapter, a visitor will be arriving at the Dreadfort while Drucilla struggles to keep her brother alive.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	24. CHAPTER 24

**Chapter 24: The Sickroom**

For eight days Drucilla refused to leave her brother's side.

"Don't you understand, Alison?" she had said when beckoned elsewhere. "The bastard wants my brother dead. Maester Uthor will tell you it's just another story I've woven, but it's true. He's always plotting and whispering, you see. Him and his Reek ... and his two little whores."

She had seen Violet and Myranda walking out of his bedchamber in the late night hours. Once, she thought she had overhead them talking about the bastard while they were scrubbing the kitchen floors. They said he, not Domeric, was the rightful heir to the Dreadfort — the natural-born heir. Drucilla would have taken their tongues for that, just as her lord father would have done, but her words had no power now. Nobody listened to her when she spoke. They all looked at her with such pity, then tenderly brushed her aside and told her not to worry her little head over such things.

As the days went on, the sickroom began to feel more and more like a prison. Alison had prepared a small bed in the corner of the room and served all her meals beside the warm hearth, but Drucilla scarcely slept or ate. She barely moved if she could help it, but she saw everything from the window.

On the first day, she had watched the ravens scatter into the grey sky and flap away in every direction. In return, she had hoped for swords, spears, and lances, but instead she received only prayers from the other Northern houses. Sansa Stark had promised to pray to all the gods, the old and the new, and to stand vigil in both the godswood and the sept until her betrothed recovered.

_Such a proper lady_, Drucilla bitterly thought. _She even had the grace to weep as she wrote it_. Drucilla had seen the tear stains, those three tiny wrinkles in the parchment; then she tossed the letter into the flames with all the others.

"Any word from my father?" she asked Maester Uthor when he came to visit her one night.

"No, my lady, but no need to worry. He's likely shipbound now, somewhere off near the Fingers, I might dare to guess. He'll be home soon, trust that." The old man's smile was tired, and it brought her no comfort. "You should get some rest now, my lady. I'll have Sara fetch more wood for the fire. That should be enough to get you through the night, but you must stop opening that window, my lady. The night's are far too cold for that. Keep it locked real tight like I showed you."

"But I never open the window, Maester Uthor," Drucilla said. "It's the wind."

"The wind?" He chuckled. "What nonsense!"

But it wasn't nonsense. Every night, the wind blew open the shutters and tried to snuff out the hearth fire. Drucilla wanted to keep the window boarded shut, but Maester Uthor insisted the fresh afternoon air was good for Domeric, and Hilda had always told her to trust the wisdom of maesters.

_But he doesn't understand_, she wanted to say. _This is a different kind of cold. Quiet, so quiet._ Drucilla shuddered at the thought of it.

Willow had once said a strange chill in the night meant Death was near, but Alison told her to pay Willow no mind. It was just a silly peasant superstition, after all, no more real than grumpkins or snarks. Or the Others.

Sighing, she looked at Domeric in his sickbed. Alison and Jeyne were bathing him with rags soaked in herb water. He seemed to groan in his sleep when Jeyne accidentally nudged his arm with her elbow. Drucilla feared he might be in need of more milk of the poppy. Maester Uthor had administered a cup the night before, after Domeric awoke screaming in pain. Drucilla thought he was dying.

She gently took his hand. His skin was cold and slick with sweat, but she could still feel the faint pulse of life against her fingertips. "He's stronger today," she told the serving girls. "Doesn't he seem stronger? Soon he'll be walking again, and riding just like before."

"Yes, m'lady," Alison said as Jeyne stared at the broken boy in the bed.

Somewhere in the castle a woman was crying, _Not his legs_! _You cannot take his legs!_

The maester cleared his throat loudly. "We received a raven from Barrow Hall, my lady," he said. "Your aunt is expected to arrive within the fortnight."

Drucilla nodded absently. "We'll have a room prepared then. Surely my mother can attend to that. She has little else to do." _She's down in the crypts now, I suspect, sitting before an empty coffin and wailing into the darkness like some harbinger of death. _She would have willed her brother to die if Drucilla hadn't sent her away from the sickroom. Her mother had given her no choice. Domeric had no need for her grief or her sorrow. _He needs strength. He needs me. _She carefully brushed the black curls out of his face and thought he'd never looked so peaceful. "Leave us now."

The door opened and closed with a quiet creak. Domeric seemed to smile at her touch, and Drucilla suddenly saw the little boy who used to watch over her in the night and chase away all her terrible dreams.

What had happened to that boy, she wondered. Why did he leave her all those years ago?

"You never were able to sleep through the night," Domeric had said to her once, after she had come upon him praying before the heart tree. He had just returned home from Redfort, and Drucilla felt uncomfortable in his presence. "Every little noise, every nightmare sent you running for my bed, and you would fall asleep curled up beside me. Always clutching onto my shirt, like you were afraid to let me go." He looked over his shoulder and smiled gently. Back then, even his smile looked different somehow, so oddly unfamiliar. It was as if she was talking to a stranger.

"I thought about you often while I was away, you know," he went on. "You won't believe it, but I did. Every time it stormed, I thought of my dear little sister, tiny and afraid, and I wondered how she would sleep without me there to protect her. How did you manage to sleep?"

"Most nights I didn't," she confessed as she remembered lying down to those endless, restless nights while her brother's bedchamber sat vacant, dark and cold. "Then, slowly, it got easier."

_The night became less terrifying._

Drucilla closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She hadn't heard the maester reenter the sickroom, but when she opened her eyes, he was standing there with a piece of ripped parchment in his hand.

Drucilla didn't need to read it. She hadn't bothered to read the others before she fed them to the flames. "Throw it in the fire, Maester Uthor. I don't care what he has to say."

"My lady," said the maester. "Your brother wishes to see you."

_My brother?_ She looked at her brother: pale and frail and barely clinging to life. Then she thought of the bastard: smiling as the guards led him away.

"No," she wanted to scream, but the word came out as a hoarse whisper, full of anger and hate. "No, you will not call him my brother, not while my true brother lies dying! You will not call _him_ my brother!"

The maester was shaken, his face flushed. "Forgive me, my lady." He dropped his head and apologized again. "But he does ask for you — _begs for you_ — every night."

"And every night I refuse him."

"Every night you do, yes, but on this night I urge you to at least consider it. Listen to what he has to say. It might prove beneficial. Perhaps it will even give you the closure you seek."

She shook her head. "Answers," she said. "I want answers, the truth. I need to hear it from his lips. So you will go to the bastard now, Maester Uthor, and you will tell him that he must confess. He must confess his crimes. Only then will I agree to see him."

The maester bowed and departed. "I will, my lady. Thank you."

* * *

The bastard was Drucilla's prisoner in only name, confined to his bedchamber until her lord father returned from the capital. Two guards were posted outside the door when Drucilla arrived. They carried swords on their belts, but Drucilla knew they wouldn't protect her from him. Without words, she commanded them to step aside and let her pass.

Inside, the chamber was warm, the air thick with steam and fragrant with lemon and herbs. The bastard soaked in a wooden tub beside the hearth. "You certainly took your time," he said as he drank ale from a pewter cup. The serving girls had put out a small feast of fresh-baked bread, dried fruit, and cheese, and the bastard consumed it eagerly. Drucilla watched with disgust as he sucked his fingers clean and reached for a second helping. "Myranda, is that you?" he asked, chewing loudly; then he turned to look over his shoulder.

If he was surprised to see her, Drucilla would never know it. He hid all his emotions behind the friendliest of smiles. "Not the person I was expecting," he said, "but nonetheless it delights me to see you, sister. Lovely as ever." He took some wine and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. "Tell me, how fares our brother? I want to see him. As his brother, I have that right."

"You have no rights, bastard."

His expression soured. "Then why are you here? Come to scrub my back?" His grin went all the way up to his eyes.

Drucilla wanted to push his head under and drown him. Instead, she took a seat at the small table and folded her hands neatly on her lap. "I've come for your story, bastard. The truth is what I seek. No more lies. What happened that day in the Dreadwoods? How did my brother come to fall?"

"But I've already told you that story. Are you so eager to hear it again?" The bastard popped a prune into his mouth and chewed, then spat the pit halfway across the room. "Fine then, if you insist, but first would you care for a drink?" He held the flagon in his hand, filling his own cup to the brim. Drucilla was silent, waiting. "No? Very well." He leaned back and made himself comfortable, drink in hand. "As I said before, we were riding through the heart of the Dreadwoods, somewhere up in the high hills, I suppose, but frankly it all looked the same to me." He shrugged uncaringly. "Tally had been nearly six days gone, and the men were growing tired, but Domeric stubbornly refused to abandon the search. You see, sister, he wasn't himself that day. He seemed ... distracted, exhausted, but too determined to turn back—"

Drucilla groaned restlessly and stirred in her chair. "Yes, I know all this." She didn't want to hear it again, to see it with her mind's eye. "How did my brother fall?"

The bastard didn't seem to like her interruption, but he continued, nevertheless. "His horse got spooked, threw him from the saddle. A dozen men saw it happen. You ask them, and they'll tell you the same."

Drucilla had asked them, each of them. They had all seen Domeric thrown from his saddle as he tried to regain control of his mount. A tragic accident, they had all called it, but still Drucilla found it difficult to believe. "Storm is a steady horse, seasoned. He does not spook easily."

The bastard was nodding along. "Then perhaps he was bewitched. Perhaps there was an adder slithering about in the bushes. Take your pick, if it please you, but do leave me out of it. I am innocent." Humming softly, he reached for his knife and carved himself a piece of cheese. "Would you like some? You look positively starved, sister, and dreadfully pale. Have you not been eating?" He shook his head in disapproval. "Now, you know what the maester said—"

Drucilla went to stand, elegant as a queen. "Keep to your games, bastard," she said, her voice sweet as a song, "but remember this: it is my kindness that keeps you from the dungeons."

"Oh, kindness, is it?" He held back a laugh. "Dear sister, your kindness would sooner put a sword at my neck. I'm no fool. It is not your kindness that has saved me from the dungeons. If you could put me in irons, you would have done so already, but you can't, I think. You have no say in the matter. You are a lady of the Dreadfort, yes, but not _the _lady. That is your good mother, and she wishes to see no more bloodshed in her great halls. A wise woman."

_"_A weak woman," she answered with a sneer. _Miserable and determined to see all her children in the crypts. _She turned and proceeded toward the door. "Well if that's all you have to say, bastard, I think we're done."

"Wait," the bastard calmly said.

Drucilla stopped. Behind her, the bathwater was quietly sloshing back and forth. When she finally glanced over her shoulder, the bastard had arisen from the tub, his pale, wet skin glistening in the firelight.

"He means to send you away," he said. "Did you know that?"

Drucilla paused. "What?"

"You heard me." Covering his nakedness with a towel, the bastard went to the tall window and drew open the shutters. "Father wants to throw you to the lions, but our proud, noble brother would rather put you on a ship and send you to the Vale where our great father can never reach you." He gazed deeply into the night and breathed in the cold air. "Sweet as that is, it creates a bit of a problem for us, doesn't it? We can't very well finish our game if you go south." He turned toward her then and asked in the voice of her father, "Is that what you want, little lady?"

Drucilla felt a gasp emerging from her throat. For a moment, she thought she had seen not the bastard standing before her but her lord father in his youth: powerful and lean and fierce. And now he was staring at her with his ghost-grey eyes, all but colorless and colder than ice.

_The eyes of winter_, she thought, _was that what Daryn Hornwood had called them? How he hated to look at them. _She remembered a boy no older than twelve, running from her with fear in his eyes. That same boy cursed her now, called her a witch and tried to turn all the North against her. _How everyone hates to look at them, even him. _

"No," she said, making the bastard smile. _I won't go south_._ I won't go where the gods can't see. _She threw open the door and hurried out.

* * *

**Sorry it took me so long with this chapter. I've been really busy with work and my book. Plus, like I've said, these are the last few chapters, so they're extra difficult to write.**

**Anyway, in the next chapter, Drucilla returns to Domeric's sickroom and finds a pair of unwanted visitors. Pushed to her limits, she succumbs to another nervous breakdown, and Maester Uthor makes a suggestion that breaks her heart.**


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